


crazy to suppose (that I would be the one you chose)

by margosfairyeye (Skittery)



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical References to Past Abuse, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Family Drama, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Jewish Quentin, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Quentin Coldwater/Alice Quinn, Quentin's canonical bisexuality, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing a Bed, au where magic still exists, holiday fluff, sick parent, slow burn even though it takes place in a single month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 02:21:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22008373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/margosfairyeye
Summary: The holidays are rapidly approaching, and Quentin needs to find himself a fiance after lying to his parents about having a serious partner in order to make his sick father happy.  Meanwhile, Eliot needs a boyfriend to take pressure off an unexpected visit from his estranged mother to him and his sister Margo for the holidays.  When Eliot answers Quentin's ad, playing fiances for each other’s family holiday events seems like the perfect solution.  But as they grow closer and navigate holidays with their families, it gets harder and harder to remember it's all supposed to be pretend.
Relationships: Fen/Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 31
Kudos: 241
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for Crazy to suppose (that I would be the one you chose)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007965) by [Dreamsparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsparkle/pseuds/Dreamsparkle). 



> AH I'm finally posting this! This is by far the longest thing I've ever written and it has been such an experience to write it and be part of MHHE. I can't believe we made it to the end of December! This fic is based on the movie Hitched for the Holidays.
> 
> Warnings for: implications of Eliot's abusive father, Eliot's unsupportive mother, lots of alcohol consumption, brief sexual experience outside of the pairing, Quentin's dad canonically being sick/dying, divorced parents, Quentin's self esteem issues, miscommunications, & explicit sex.
> 
> Huge thanks to my amazing artist dreamsparkle! It was so great to work with them and their art is stunning!  
> You can see the absolutely incredible art [here on ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22007965) or [on tumblr](https://dreamsparkle.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Endless thanks to my beta [zade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zade/pseuds/zade) for spending many hours encouraging me to not give up on writing this and then even more hours betaing it when it turned out I was writing 60k instead of the 25k ze agreed to beta.

Quentin has a problem. A big, monumental, person-sized problem. He rests his head on the desk of his cubicle, trying to let the din of the phones and the typing and the people milling around wash over him and help him forget how incredibly stupid he’s been. 

“Hey, Q? You okay there?”

Julia leans her head around her cubicle and tries to make eye contact, waving her hand in front of his face annoyingly. Quentin groans. 

“So you know how I had dinner with my parents last night?” 

Julia nods sagely. “The good old Coldwater pretend-we’re-still-a-happy-family traditional meal.”

Quentin groans again. She’s not wrong—his parents have been divorced for a decade but for some reason they still think they have to get together, all three of them, for family dinners and holidays, like he’s a little kid in denial. It never goes well. And now that his dad is sick, something Quentin tries to think about as little as possible since it spikes his anxiety in terrifying and soul-rending ways, the family dinners have an air of importance, like they all have to say everything they might possibly need to before it’s too late. Which also means they keep having the same irritating conversations about Quentin’s love life. 

“Right. So somehow last night we got on the topic of my dad’s like, bucket list? Like the things he wants to do before...you know.” Julia nods. “Right, so out of fucking nowhere he says all he wants is to walk me down the aisle, to see me happy and married and all of that.” 

Julia whistles slightly under her breath. “Wow, that’s a lot of pressure.”

“Right. So then they start talking about Alice of course, and it was just a lot so I panicked and I told them...that I’m seeing someone. And it’s serious.” Julia bursts out laughing and Quentin groans again. 

“Oh my god, congrats, you finally learned how to lie to your parents.” 

“It gets worse.” Quentin lifts his head off the desk, even though he still wants to sink through his chair onto the floor. “I told them I was thinking of proposing, it was  _ that _ serious. And now I have to find someone to bring home for all the holidays as like, proof.”

Julia stops laughing in order to give him a long, incredulous look. “Wow, Q, you’re really so bad at this.” 

“What am I gonna do, Jules?”

She taps her nails against the plastic piece on the edge of the wall dividing their cubicles. Quentin sometimes can’t believe that he and Julia found jobs at the same tiny paper (he writes book reviews and she does opinion pieces), or that their cubicles are right next to each other (although he suspects Julia threatened someone to make that happen). They’ve known each other since they were kids, when Quentin’s parents were still together and Julia wore pigtails and didn’t know the word “aesthetic;” before either of them knew that magic was real, before Quentin’s failed engagement and Julia’s failed marriage and before Quentin knew what the walls looked like in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. 

Julia taps her nails and scrunches up her face and Quentin feels undeniable affection for her underneath his ongoing mild panic. He’d hoped that saying it out loud would make the whole thing feel less insurmountable, but actually it sounded just as terrible out loud as it had in his head. 

“Okay, so,” Julia says, swiveling her chair around the barrier so they’re both crowded into his little cubicle space, and lowering her voice conspiratorially, “option one, you tell your dad you lied to him.” Quentin shakes his head; that’s not a good option, not at this point. “Option two, you go online, put out an ad for someone to be your pretend almost-fiance, and get through the holidays, and then have a big explosive break-up.”

Quentin considers it. He doesn’t have a better idea, and he has to do  _ something _ because telling his dad that he lied to him during this particular discussion sounds incredibly cruel. And also Quentin isn’t very good at confrontation, and he suspects that if he does stage a break-up, especially around New Years, it will be enough to get his parents to stop hounding him about dating for a little while, at least. 

Julia’s already seen the move towards agreement in Quentin’s expression, and she pulls over his keyboard and opens some dating website, starting to type rapidly. 

“Wait, hold on.”

Julia gives him an exasperated look. “Well, there’s always option three: you tell them you’ve finally gotten smart enough to propose to me.”

Quentin shudders slightly. “Option two it is.”

Julia nods and resumes typing, and Quentin leans in to read what she’s written.  _ Seeking a date to attend family events during the entirety of the holiday season, from now until New Years. You get free meals and a good story, I get my parents to stop asking why I’m single. No strings attached. _

“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” Quentin remarks and Julia gives him the “oh, honey” look.

“No offense, Quentin, but  _ you _ sound way more rambly, and it’s an ad, it has to be succinct or people will stop reading.”

“Can’t you make it...I don’t know, sexier?”

Julia laughs. “I’ll use the picture from my parents’ house.” More specifically, from the fancy pool at their summer house when he was tan and sort of wet and wearing a borrowed swimsuit that left very little to the imagination; good enough. 

“There, done! Now you just wait for the messages to come pouring in.”

Quentin smiles at Julia, because  _ technically _ she is helping. He’s had a lot of time to get used to the way she jumps into things, the way she thinks she’s being helpful when really she’s just talking over him, and at this point, the part that irritates him about it is the implication that he can’t do things like write his own personal ad by himself. This whole idea is fraught with holes that they haven’t had time to consider yet, including the fact that he might only get replies from creeps, so it may not even matter that he didn’t write it himself. 

Julia kisses his cheek and slides her chair back to her own cubicle, leaving Quentin to contemplate his life, and his empty inbox, and the book he still hasn’t finished reading because it’s not that good, but he hates to write a negative review. He’s considering which option is really the best one for occupying the last few hours of work when Penny sticks his head over his cubicle wall. 

Quentin honestly has no idea what Penny does for work, only that he’s always there in the cubicle on the other side of Quentin’s, or walking around the office making himself appear important, and he seems to have made it his job to annoy Quentin as often as possible. Quentin suspects Penny is also a magician—that would at least explain how he’s managed to hold a job without a defined title and no questions asked, and also how he’s able to pop up at the least helpful moments. Quentin’s never asked though, because Quentin Made A Decision not to use magic in his life, to just live a normal life, one where he doesn’t have to feel afraid at every moment that someone will notice and judge him and his pathetic magical discipline. It’s kept him from making money without doing any work, which is the general magician life plan, but it’s also kept his anxiety about magic in check, so he figures it’s a wash. 

“You looking at porn?” Penny asks, like he’s ever had anything else up on his own computer.

Quentin glances quickly at his screen: still the empty dating site inbox, although yeah, there are some less work appropriate ads scrolling across the page. He quickly clicks back into the empty word document that’s supposed to be his article. “No,  _ some of us _ have to work.”

Penny frowns, but Quentin can’t imagine feeling bad about not having to work at work, and within seconds Penny’s expression has cleared. He indicates the now partially hidden dating website page. “You know, Coldwater, if you need a date that badly, I’m always available.”

Quentin rolls his eyes—Penny hits on him a lot, ever since the first time they met when Quentin had  _ one fleeting thought _ about the possibility of spending lunch pulling him into the supply closet and tearing off his suit, instead of going out with Julia for falafel. For weeks after that, Penny kept stopping Quentin right in front of that supply closet and starting conversations, which felt too pointed to be accidental. Unfortunately for Penny, Quentin isn’t really interested in dating anyone right now, never mind someone who is possibly psychic. 

Actually, maybe fortunately for Penny in the long run, because Quentin is kind of a mess. 

“Hey listen Penny, if you’re always available and need some help with that, I know a good dating site...”

Penny scowls. “You know only creeps use those anyways.” And ducks back down to his desk. 

Quentin is thinking that exact same thing. The _ biggest _ flaw with Julia’s plan is the part where he has to actually find someone he won’t hate pretending to date, and who his parents also won’t hate, which is...a tall order. He hates that his thoughts go to Alice—he knows exactly why that relationship failed, and why it would be destined to fail in every hypothetical timeline in which it starts, but that doesn’t stop the unrealistic nostalgia he feels for being in a serious relationship. 

He sighs and picks up the book he doesn’t want to finish, trying to pretend he’s not actually watching his inbox, hoping for a message from someone who ideally is not a creep. 

— — 

Eliot stands in front of the floor to ceiling glass windows of his 26th floor office, staring out at the blurry bustle of New York City absently, trying to avoid doing any actual work and also returning his sister’s ominous phone call. Eliot’s phone rings, again—can’t she tell he’s fucking avoiding her—buzzing insistently against the wood of his desk, and he reaches out with his mind and knocks it onto the carpeted floor, where it continues to buzz slightly less noisily. 

Eliot sighs. He’s got it all: he’s one of the most successful freelance marketing professionals in the entire city, impeccably dressed, popular in all of the circles he runs in, living in a gorgeous downtown loft apartment. He’s one of the best magicians he knows, which does admittedly contribute to his other successes, but he prefers to think that his magic just amplifies his a bility  to be who he’s spent his life trying to be; it just makes things a little bit easier, more fun. 

Eliot picks up a glass off a side table and takes the last sip, glancing away from the view when his phone irritatingly starts ringing again. He thinks he ought to be above getting flustered by his family at this point, but they’ve always been the thing that can cut through his successful facade and make him feel like a child again. He’s listened to his sister Margo’s message enough times that he has it memorized, and he thinks it should be obvious to her right now that he doesn’t want to reply to it. 

_ Hey, don’t worry but I’ve got some news. Mom is coming to stay with me for a while, she’ll be here until New Years at least. We’ve been talking and I’m trying to make it all fucking work, you know. Eliot, I know you’re there so call me back. And don’t think for one second you’re getting out of coming for Christmas—you and mom just need to pussy up and fix your issues, okay? Call me back, El. _

Eliot isn’t sure which part of the message he hates more. The fact that his mother, who he has avoided talking to for so many years—he’s avoided everyone in his family except for Margo, in fact—is coming to stay with Margo for at least a month, which makes her all but unavoidable? The fact that Margo is telling him he has to try to  _ fix his issues _ ? Like his issues with their family aren’t intrinsically related to who he is as a person, which Margo, now married to a woman, should understand better. Eliot knows how that conversation goes though, the one where Margo is respectable, with a wife and a baby, and Eliot is still the promiscuous teenager that never grew up. 

Actually the worst part is that he really can’t go an entire month without seeing Margo (cheers for codependency) and he knows he isn’t getting out of Christmas, which means there is no possible way to avoid seeing and talking to his mom. Eliot blames Margo, partially, because before she got married and moved north and got a giant apartment with extra bedrooms, they never had enough space to host visitors, nevermind for this long. They’d shared an apartment for a long time, actually, until coming home to Margo and Fen fucking on the couch had gotten old and he was glad to see them find their own place—he just hadn’t expected they’d keep moving north little by little until they actually left him alone in the city. 

Eliot’s phone starts buzzing again, and he's just putting off the inevitable. The last time he’d ignored Margo’s calls, she’d created a portal into his office and stepped through already yelling, which had been  _ a lot _ to explain to his clients. 

“Hi,” he says into the phone, sitting down on his office couch and floating the whiskey bottle over to refill the cup. 

“Good, I was starting to worry you were lying in a ditch somewhere.” Margo sounds fond but annoyed, which is probably the best case mood at this point. 

“Nope, just ignoring you.”

“Asshole.”

Eliot takes a drink. He shouldn’t be drinking at work (he says he’s leaning into the Mad Men thing, but really that’s a piss poor excuse), but this phone call is an extenuating circumstance and the way the liquor feels going down his throat—warm and stinging and sweet—is a mild comfort, at least. 

“So. Mom.” 

“Yes, Eliot, she’s coming, so it’s too late to argue.” Eliot huffs and takes another drink; Margo’s voice softens. “She wants to see you, you know that right? Doesn’t that count for something?”

He considers it for a moment, unwanted memories filtering through holes in the walls he’s tried to build up between Then and Now. “Not really.” He pauses. “You used to not want to see her too, or did you forget?” 

“She’s digging herself out of the small town mindset just like we did, it’s just taking a little longer. She wants you to be happy, she wants to support you now.” It’s not Margo’s fault if the sentence sounds less certain by the time she gets to the end, he just wishes she would stop lying for this woman. 

“Yeah, she’ll support me when I marry some bland girl named Mary Elizabeth and settle down into family life like you did.”

“Don’t insult my life just because you don’t like yours.” Margo spits back, and Eliot puts down his glass, regretting how his irritation mixes with liquor to loosen his tongue and his temper. He and Margo don’t squabble like this, except for when their family is around, which feels like more than enough of a reason to keep them far, far away in Indiana. 

“Sorry, Bambi. I just don’t want to deal with her.” 

“Yeah, but she already bought the plane ticket so we’re stuck.” The truth comes out—Margo doesn’t want her there either. They’re both quiet for a moment, out of barbs and information. “So how’s whatshisname? Mom might leave you alone if you have someone to bring with when you come over.” 

Eliot winces. “Oh, we broke up.”

“Wasn’t he, like, a ballet dancer?”

“Yeah, but after the novelty of the flexibility wore off, he was just boring.”

“Right.” Eliot can hear Margo’s eyes roll. He knows she thinks that he’d be happier if he landed in a “real, committed relationship,” but Eliot tends to run away from things before they get too serious. Probably a shrink would blame it all on his daddy issues, but he hasn’t bothered to check; he’s fine with his status quo, at least it keeps things interesting. 

“Maybe I’ll meet someone else by the time I have to see her.” 

"It's already December, El. You’re gonna find a serious boyfriend in the next few weeks?”

“Oh you know me, I’ve always got a replacement warming the bench.”

Margo laughs, and they say they’ll talk soon and then they hang up and Eliot’s alone in his office, this time without the threat of incoming phone calls. He sighs, refills his glass—it’s not like he can take back the drinks he’s already had, so he might as well just commit to it being that kind of day. He wonders if Margo knows he was lying about having a new boy at the ready—not that he doubts his ability to find someone new, but he doesn’t want to feed anyone the false hope of bringing them home to meet his family when he has absolutely no intention of staying together once his mom is well and gone. 

Eliot’s considering this issue when his door slams open and Todd comes striding in. Eliot has generally avoided making friends at his various jobs, since there’s no real need and he tends to get annoyed by other people in his field. Todd is no exception, but he’s exceptionally persistent and also doesn’t seem to take a hint. Eliot has begrudgingly stopped trying to get rid of him, because it’s entirely futile. 

“Eliot! Hitting the drinks early today, nice! You, uh, got another glass?”

Eliot very specifically doesn’t turn around to look at the bar cart next to his desk, which has a small collection of glasses. “I really, really don’t.”

Todd looks taken aback for a split second and then recovers. “Okay, cool, what’s up?” 

He settles himself on the couch next to Eliot, which is not what Eliot was hoping for. Eliot thinks about saying “nothing,” and then spontaneously decides to see if Todd has an actual suggestion for how to bring a boy home without making it seem like a promise. Eliot might even offer him a drink if he does. 

“Todd, do you know anyone who would date me for a little over a month and meet my family and then leave me the hell alone once they leave after the holidays?” 

Todd looks for a split second like he’s going to volunteer, and Eliot is frankly relieved when he doesn’t. He’s already had one trying conversation this afternoon. 

“You could maybe hire an escort? If it’s just about the family part?”

Eliot considers. He hadn’t thought of that, but it’s a shockingly good idea. He hates to lengthen this conversation, but the only hitch is that Eliot doesn’t exactly know how to hire an escort—he’s never needed to know—but he assumes Todd does. 

“Suggestions for where to look?”

Todd laughs, and then stops immediately when Eliot doesn’t also laugh. “You can always try a few dating websites first? Maybe you could find a volunteer.”

Eliot nods and gestures at the computer idling on his desk. “Show me.”

— — 

Quentin doesn’t check the inbox of the dating site for two entire days (well, he glances at it, but he doesn’t read anything, and that’s what really counts as checking). He comes home from work, changes into pajamas, puts a frozen dinner into the microwave, pours himself a glass of red wine even though he’d like something stronger, and finally opens up his laptop and looks at the inbox. He’s not expecting much, but there’s at least ten messages sitting there, and Quentin can’t help a tiny flutter of excitement that anyone is interested in his weird proposition. 

He opens the first one hesitantly. It’s a dick pic.

Quentin groans, the excitement in his stomach turning to unease. Maybe this isn’t going to work, after all. He takes a sip of wine and a tiny bite of frozen dinner, even though he’s suddenly not very hungry. He clicks away from the page, trying to distract himself, but the truth is he wants to read all of the messages, even if they all turn his stomach and make him regret putting any faith in this plan. Within minutes he’s back in the inbox. 

It turns out about half the messages are like the first one, and the other half are from people who he would never date or want to even pretend with. There’s one that’s different though, the one he opens last. He almost doesn’t open it, he glances at the picture from the senders profile and he’s never seen anyone look that good in a still photo—for a moment Quentin is sure it’s a mistake, that the message wasn’t really meant for him. 

_ hi, it sounds like we’re looking for similar things. need help proving to my mother and sister that I can hold down a cute man - for the holidays only. awaiting your reply. _

Quentin stares at the photo attached to the message. It’s of a guy close to his age, with piercing eyes and a mess of curls; he’s smirking in the picture, like he’s sharing a scandalous secret with whoever took it, and it makes Quentin’s insides fluttery. Quentin hesitates, for just a moment, thinks about calling Julia for advice or encouragement, but then decides he doesn’t really need to, since there’s no way he’s not replying to this message. 

_ Hi, yes it does. What’s the next move? Virtual handshake? Meeting in person? Pls reply. _

Quentin’s ears are buzzing as he presses the send button. He really should have waited for Julia to at least sign off on the wording. Not that it really matters, since this is purely a business relationship, and exchange of services. Maybe this guy won’t even reply again, and that’ll be that—it’s tame for a worst case scenario, which is comforting. Quentin takes another sip of wine. 

He’s startled when his computer makes a little ding a few seconds later and there’s a new message. 

_ meet in person. ideas? _

Quentin thinks, panicking slightly at being put in the position of having to choose. It has to be somewhere public, stranger danger and everything, and it has to be soon because it’s already December and they’ll need at least a few weeks to figure everything out and make sure they won’t hate each other. He remembers that he has a work party on Saturday, two days away, which seems to fit the requirements, and the only downside is that he’ll actually have to attend a work party. 

_ Office holiday party, bar in Midtown, Saturday. Meet me by the lighting store next door, 7pm. Good? _

It only takes a few seconds for the ding of the reply:  _ it’s a date. _

Quentin’s insides start tying themselves into tiny knots—it’s real, he’s actually going to meet this person so that they can decide if they can use each other to trick their families into thinking they're successful, well-adjusted adults. That doesn’t sound pathetic at all. 

Quentin tries to steady himself with more wine, but it only amplifies his nerves, pushing rational thoughts aside in favor of focusing on the fact that it’s Thursday, and he only has two days to make himself look and seem appealing to the kind of guy whose portrait deserves to be hung in a museum. Quentin tries to plan an outfit in his head, but he can’t remember a single piece of nice clothing that he owns. 

He doesn’t share his apartment with any roommates, but it’s a tiny studio in Queens, and the distance between his half-table/desk and his hanging rack that he pretends is a closet is small enough that he’s easily able to swivel around and assess the available shirts hanging there. His eyes sweep across his less than stellar wardrobe options, and they catch on a few shirts pushed all the way to the end of the bar, close up against the wall—his Alice shirts. The ones he associates strongly with that relationship, or maybe just with the end of it. The shirt he was wearing when they ended things, and the one that she’d told him made him look like someone she wouldn’t spare a second glance for. 

He turns his attention away from those memories—Quentin knows exactly why they broke up, and it was basically mutual; an understood if unwanted acceptance of the fact that they really weren’t good for each other, that they were holding each other back from being what they could be, what they wanted to be. Julia had said good riddance, his mom had cried, and Quentin had just felt lost. 

Quentin suddenly hates every piece of clothing he owns, so he sends Julia a quick SOS text, pours himself more (ill-advised) wine, and tries to watch tv and not think about how he’s a disaster and there’s no way this will possibly go well. 

It takes another bottle of wine and a lot of breathing exercises to get him through the next day and a half. Well, Julia helps with the wine some on Saturday. She perches on his bed and watches him fidget while stealing anxious glances at the time, until it’s finally close enough that he can start obsessing over what to wear. She had helped him pick out some new dress shirts, but somehow now that it was time, everything feels lacking. 

“He’s way too hot for me,” Quentin remarks, not for the first time, as he pulls on a navy button up that Julia helped him pick out—he’s tried on the shirt options at least three times now, but nothing feels right. Anxiety is a bitch. 

Julia frowns and swallows the remainder of the wine in her glass. “You’re going to look great, you’re psyching yourself out. And we’re going to be late if you don’t just put on clothes.”

Quentin looks back at her, her face encouraging and exasperated, and reluctantly buttons the shirt he has on. He only has a few options for pants and settles on tight, dark jeans because he doesn’t want to look too formal, and because Julia is always telling him that his ass looks good in these particular jeans. He spins in a tiny circle and Julia gives him an appreciative, though sarcastic, little clap. 

“Amazing. Now let’s go.”

Quentin worries the cuff of his new shirt the entire train ride; he can’t stop thinking about all of the ways this could be a complete disaster. Maybe he’ll fall and ruin his clothes, or maybe this guy will hate him, or just completely stand him up, or maybe they’ll meet up and he’ll be beautiful and also a terrible person and Quentin will have to deal with an asshole date the whole evening. Julia keeps shooting him looks, but she can’t understand how incredibly stressful it is to meet some incredibly hot stranger, with so much on the line, and need to make it all work. 

It feels like not nearly enough time before they’re getting off the train. Quentin’s fidgeting has sprung one of the buttons free from his shirt cuff, and it’s hanging by a thread—so much for having a perfect new shirt. 

Julia wraps her hand around his elbow as they walk to the bar, and the pressure and warmth of it helps him relax, helps him breathe and keep walking forward. Quentin purposefully asked this guy to meet him in front of the neighboring storefront, to make sure he really wants to do this, and to avoid the questions if someone from work happened to be walking in at the same time. He can see a figure standing in the agreed upon spot as they near it, and Julia peels off at the bar, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze and then lightly smacking his ass when he turns away from her to keep walking. 

“You got this,” she says, grinning and stepping through the door into the bar. 

Quentin still isn’t sure. The lighting store was a good choice, because even though it’s closed, all of the lamps in the window are still on, projecting a sea of light onto the dark sidewalk in front of the store, like a soft spotlight. Standing in the middle of it, his profile facing Quentin, is undoubtedly the most attractive man Quentin has ever seen. He turns towards Quentin when he hears him approach, and the word attractive does him a disservice; this man is beautiful, he’s all cheekbones and perfect lips and eyes that hold the entire world and drink Quentin in, pulling him into orbit. Quentin feels his breath catch in his throat, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s stopped walking and is standing a few feet away and staring and completely missing the words this beautiful stranger is saying to him. 

“CozyHorse41?” 

Quentin blinks, wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his pants, tries to turn his awed expression into a friendly smile, and regrets letting Julia choose his username. Quentin isn’t used to being under the gaze of someone like this, looking him up and down and then landing on his face, and he’s still waiting for someone to jump out of a bush and inform him that this has all been some kind of elaborate trick. “Uh-huh.” 

The man smiles, the kind of smile that feels both mischievous and genuine, that makes anyone under it melt, and extends his hand, taking a step towards Quentin. “I’m Eliot.”

Eliot. There’s something right about his name, it fits him better than anything else Quentin could think of, and putting a real name to this face instead of a collection of random letters and numbers online makes it the reality of this snap into focus. He looks at Quentin like he’s waiting for something and Quentin realizes he should also probably introduce himself. Unless he wants Eliot calling him CozyHorse41 all night.

“Uh, right. Quentin.” He reaches for Eliot’s hand, and tries to ignore the electricity jumping across his palms when he touches Eliot for the moment it takes to shake hands. 

Eliot raises an eyebrow skeptically. “Quentin. That’s...not a common name.”

Quentin brushes away a flicker of irritation—of course, just because he thinks that Eliot is gorgeous and has a name that fits him, that doesn’t mean Eliot’s going to think the same of him. This is just an arrangement, and he’s going into it like it’s an actual date, and nothing lies down that path but disappointment. “Well, when you meet my parents you can ask them what they were thinking.”

It’s an attempt to bring them back on track, to remind himself that this is why they’re here, and all they have to do tonight is get along passably. And then Eliot will probably go back to some gorgeous guy who just isn’t parent appropriate, and Quentin will go back to his apartment alone. 

Eliot’s smile widens very slightly, like he’s pleased with the response; its subtle enough that Quentin might not even have noticed, except his eyes keep straying to Eliot’s lips. Eliot’s eyes sweep over Quentin again, more slowly, like he’s really looking, and Quentin feels his face growing hot.

“ _ When _ I meet them?”

Quentin’s face grows impossibly hotter, and he’s sure he’s turning completely red, like an embarrassed lobster. And Eliot is still being lit by the light from the window, glowing, beautiful and powerful. Quentin tries to avoid thinking of that, and forces himself to shrug and smile.

“I mean, um, assuming tonight goes well enough?”

“I have a feeling it will,” Eliot replies, offering Quentin his arm, and Quentin tentatively takes it, so that he doesn’t seem rude. Eliot’s wearing a grey wool coat over an incredibly nice suit, the purples of his shirt and tie just peeking through the open front of the coat, and Quentin feels an immediate squirmy embarrassed feeling in his stomach—not only is he not wearing a suit, but he already fucked up one of the cuff buttons on his stupid new shirt. 

They walk back towards the bar, and Quentin pretends his stomach isn’t filled with fluttering as they walk arm in arm. It’s going to be a long month if he can’t get his body to understand that it’s all fake, but looking at Eliot, he has to give his body a little bit of a pass for getting caught up.

Eliot pulls open the door to the bar, and they both walk inside, and Quentin doesn’t notice the slight movements of Eliot’s other hand and the way all the lamps in the window of the lighting store next door start winking out one by one. 

— — 

Eliot likes bars, although really he likes dive bars and he likes upscale bars, and he hates what’s in the middle—those bars that try to feel fancy without really putting in the effort, so they don’t quite fall into any category—so of course that’s where he finds himself on his not-date. Eliot almost didn’t come, not that he likes to admit that to himself, but he figures that if this online guy isn’t up to his standards, he can easily ditch him and find someone else to take home, which would solve nothing except the fear that this evening might be a waste of time. 

After seeing Quentin, though, he is pleasantly surprised. Quentin is anxious and nerdy (see CozyHorse41) and he’s wearing an old coat and his button-up is missing a sleeve button, but there’s something about him that catches Eliot, some glimmer of something that makes his heart pound and his hands itch to touch. It’s something that Eliot is having trouble ignoring, even though this is strictly business—Quentin is cute in an unassuming way, which makes him different than Eliot’s usual mark, different than most of the people Eliot associates with in general, and Eliot likes it.

After they walk into the bar, he’s introduced quickly to Quentin’s friend, whose name he can’t remember, and then she’s off into the crowd and Quentin’s leading him towards the bar, thank god. Eliot watches Quentin lean over the bar to get the bartender’s attention, his own attention drawn to the curve of Quentin’s ass, the way he looks with his chest pressed against the dark wood of the bar—sure, this is strictly business, but there’s no harm in looking.

“You want something?” 

Eliot blinks his attention back to Quentin’s face, belatedly taking in the question. “Yeah, whiskey rocks is fine.” Quentin nods and relays the order. Eliot would put money on Quentin drinking some cheap, boring beer; Eliot knows he’s been drinking too much straight liquor recently, but his list of bad habits is long enough that he’s basically given up on solving the less pressing ones. 

Quentin presses the cold glass into Eliot’s hand and their fingers touch briefly, and it’s much more exciting than it should be. Eliot loves this part, the chase, the point where it’s unclear if something will happen or not—he loves all of dating, actually, up to the point where he actually has to commit to the mortifying ordeal of being known. Luckily, he also doesn’t really mind breakups. 

“So, what do you do for work?” Quentin asks when they’ve moved away from the bar, standing against a wall. Eliot isn’t shocked that Quentin’s more of a wallflower. 

“Advertising, mostly,” Eliot replies, sipping his drink and watching Quentin try to discreetly size him up again. He puts his hand nonchalantly on Quentin’s arm, enjoying the way it makes Quentin fidget. “I’m very good at my job.”

Quentin laughs nervously. “Ha. Right. Have I seen any ads of yours?”

Eliot shrugs. His work is part skill (he’s a very good salesman) and part magic, but he isn’t about to bring that last part up. “Undoubtedly.” He leaves it there. “How about you, what do you do?”

Quentin swallows, and starts absently peeling the paper label off his beer. It’s a Brooklyn Lager, so not quite as cheap and basic as Eliot was expecting—that’s a point to Quentin. “I’m a writer.” 

He sounds very unsure. “Anything I might have read?” 

Quentin laughs bitterly. “Uh, no, probably not. I review books, so.”

Eliot frowns. “They still pay people to review books?”

“Not very well, but...yeah.”

Quentin looks annoyed, and Eliot is pretty sure he should remove his hand, but he doesn’t want to, and he’s sure he can turn the conversation around, still. “Well, I should probably read more...maybe you can give me some suggestions.” 

Quentin half-smiles, which is better than nothing. “Yeah, sure.”

Eliot’s gearing up for more standard getting-to-know-you questions when someone approaches them. Handsome, but looking at Quentin in a way that makes Eliot feel weird—not quite jealous, he doesn’t get jealous, but maybe just competitive—and Eliot can feel Quentin tense up under his hand. 

“Coldwater, there you are. Is this guy bothering you? Because I’m here if you need me.”

Quentin winces at the name, which probably means it’s actually his—so much for relative anonymity for the first meeting. And what a name—Quentin Coldwater—if they get past this, he’s really going to have to have a talk with Quentin’s parents. 

“Oh, uh, hey Penny, this is—” Quentin gestures lightly with the hand holding the beer. 

“Eliot Waugh,” Eliot breaks in, giving Penny his free hand to shake. Now they’re back on even ground. “His boyfriend.”

Penny startles visibly at that, and narrows his eyes at Quentin. “No fucking way, if this was your boyfriend I’d have seen him before. Come on, Quentin,” he whines, “I saved you a dance.”

He’s slurring a little bit and it occurs belatedly to Eliot that this Penny guy might be kind of drunk. Quentin looks uncomfortable, but he’s also determinedly not walking away. “Hey, stop it.” Eliot isn’t sure about this relationship, maybe Penny’s an ex or something, and he’s not sure about why he feels so strongly about stepping in, but he really does. 

Eliot realizes he knows Penny, is it even possible they slept together during school, or maybe he’s cobbling together multiple brooding, scarf-laden boys into one that matches Penny. No, they definitely slept together, and Eliot isn’t about to let Quentin get taken away by some bitter psychic. At least he seems drunk enough and thrown enough by seeing Eliot that he’s only beginning to poke at Eliot’s mental wards—the last thing they need right now is someone reading their minds. Eliot needs a distraction.

“You’re not his boyfriend, pretty boy,” Penny says, and it’s a stupid insult (especially coming from someone wearing a goddamn decorative scarf), but it still hits a little close to home for Eliot. He feels annoyance starting in his gut, his fingers itching—unfortunate since magic showdowns aren’t exactly the smartest thing in a random crowded bar in Midtown. 

“I am, asshole,” Eliot rejoins, draining his glass. 

“Prove it.” 

Eliot doesn’t think about it. He moves quickly, acting on alcohol and irritation and the feel of Quentin’s tensed muscles under his hand and the fact that he is Eliot Waugh, and he’ll be damned if he loses anything to some second rate hipster. He lunges towards Quentin and kisses him. 

It’s weird, at first. Quentin doesn’t react, except for a surprised squeak, his lips closed against Eliot’s, and then after a moment of chaste lips pressed against lips, Quentin relaxes, and Eliot instinctively deepens the kiss, not pushing too far but just enough that it goes from chaste to passionate. It’s actually a good kiss, and Eliot momentarily loses himself in it before Quentin abruptly pulls away. He still looks panicked, but there’s something soft in his eyes when they meet Eliot’s that makes Eliot want nothing more than to pull him back in for another kiss. 

“Is that proof enough?” Eliot says, trying not to sound like he’s catching his breath. 

Penny looks surprised, but he’s still not leaving them alone and Eliot’s patience has run thin. He removes his hand from Quentin’s back (where it somehow found it’s way without him being entirely conscious of it) and does a quick concentrated motion. It’s almost immediate—all of the cups and bottles within a two foot radius of Penny (including Quentin’s) suddenly spill, or rather, the liquid lifts out of the containers and splashes on the exact spot where Penny’s standing, drenching him in a variety of alcohols. Quentin gets a little bit of the spray, which Eliot regrets, but Penny immediately glares at Eliot and stomps away. Eliot mentally pulls his scarf down towards the floor as a parting shot, gratified by how well it works to trip Penny. 

Everyone near them is looking around trying to figure out what happened to their drinks, but Eliot knows how to save that. “Next round’s on me,” he announces to the general cheers of the bar. Then he turns back to Quentin, who looks thoroughly unimpressed and a little bit hurt. 

“What the fuck was that?”

Eliot shrugs, “He was being an asshole.”

Quentin gapes at him. “You—you  _ kissed _ me. And then you,” he lowers his voice, “you did  _ that _ with all these people watching.”

Eliot isn’t exactly shocked that Quentin knows about magic, there’s a lot of people in the City and he tends to be attracted to power, even when it’s being repressed. He shakes his head dismissively. “It worked, right? He’s gone, so move on.” Quentin scowls. “Plus we probably shouldn’t have a fucking psychic around if we’re pretending to date.”

Quentin’s eyes light up for a moment, then he looks annoyed again. “Look, I appreciate that, but Penny’s not a bad guy, I could’ve shaken him off. And, I don’t want that kind of...attention.”

It sounds like a line he’s been repeating to himself for years; Eliot feels a sudden determination to convince him that it’s idiotic. “Well, that’s fucking stupid.” 

Quentin opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then tries to take a drink from his regretfully empty beer bottle. Eliot feels a little bad about that part, especially when Quentin scowls and looks resigned to something. Eliot’s never had a date that hasn’t gone his way, in one way or another, and he’s starting to get worried that streak’s about to be broken. 

“I don’t think this is going to work,” Quentin says, his face a weird mixture of defiance and regret. “Unless...”

As Eliot sees it, he has two choices, he can either sit here and get lectured or worse, rejected, by basically a stranger, or he can cut his losses and leave. He’s fairly certain Todd has other possibilities up his sleeve, and he’s not going to let one nearly accidental kiss with one cute boy ruin his evening. Really, it’s not even a choice. 

“I think you’re right,” he says before Quentin can continue. Eliot’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and even though he knows it’s either Margo or some other guy he wants to avoid, it’s perfect timing because he can pull it out of his pocket and look like he has other things going on as he walks away from Quentin. He doesn’t turn around until he’s at the door, and is somewhat gratified to see Quentin standing in the same place, watching him retreat. Not that he cares. 

It’s an ex hookup, on the phone, so Eliot listens until he’s safely out of the bar and then hangs up without saying anything. He stands on the sidewalk for a moment, watching people walk by, and lights a cigarette discreetly from his fingertips. He tries to remind himself that this was just business, and sometimes it doesn’t work out, and he has no reason to feel bad about leaving Quentin standing in the bar alone. It works, sort of. 

Except that Eliot is still thinking about Quentin and how he’s probably very good with parents and would be easy enough to pretend with; he’s still thinking about the kiss, too, and how warm his hand had felt on the small of Quentin’s back, and how much he wants to do it all again, at least once, just to get it off of his mind. He’s still thinking about it when he goes to another, and then a third bar, and when he meets someone else and takes him home and tries to forget everything other than skin and need, until finally it’s late and he’s alone in his apartment.

Eliot doesn’t bother showering or getting dressed, although he does change the sheets, and then glances at his phone, which has one notification, a message from Todd:  _ How’d it go?! _

Eliot blames it on that, on the fact that he really doesn’t want to admit to Todd that it didn’t go well, that he can’t make a simple handshake agreement to pretend to date someone, that he has to keep trying, and also he doesn’t want to give Todd the appearance that he actually needs his help. 

Eliot pulls out his phone and opens the dating website, navigates to his DMs with Quentin, types up a quick message and sends it before he has time to think too hard about it. 

_ first dates always suck, but I know this arrangement can work so let’s try again. I’ll behave. coffee, 1pm tomorrow. love, eliot.  _


	2. Chapter 2

Quentin isn’t sure he’s making the right decision when he walks into the coffee shop. He was so angry the night before, or maybe just disappointed; he’d watched Eliot leave the bar and then he’d found Julia and ranted to her about how ridiculous it had all been and how much he hated Eliot until she could barely keep her eyes open and had to leave, and then he’d ranted to the plants in his apartment. 

The problem is that Quentin doesn’t hate Eliot. He thinks he’s a little overconfident, and much too comfortable throwing around kisses, but Quentin can’t stop thinking about him and the thoughts are pretty evenly split between wanting to talk to him as soon as possible and never wanting to see him again. So when he wakes up and sees Eliot’s message, sees “love, Eliot,” even if it’s meant sarcastically, he can’t say no. It’s ridiculous, but Quentin sort of needs this option to work; even if they don’t get along so well, he can at least keep looking at Eliot while they pretend. 

So here he is, at the coffee shop, wearing the second of his new shirts and trying to remind himself that this is business, not fun. He grabs a cup of black coffee with sugar and sees Eliot at a table by the window immediately. Eliot is  _ lounging _ , making the worn wooden chair look like a plush throne, wearing more casual but still incredibly nice and well-put-together clothing, sunglasses covering his eyes. He has a giant cup in front of him. 

Eliot takes off the sunglasses when Quentin approaches (Quentin doesn’t startle at the reminder of how gorgeous his eyes are, not at all), and gestures to the other chair. Quentin sits, tucking up one leg—he can’t begin to see how Eliot looks so relaxed and comfortable in this terrible chair. 

“Hi,” Eliot says.

“Hi.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

Quentin laughs wryly. “I wasn’t either.”

“But now that you’re here, let’s start this over.” He extends his hand over the table gracefully. “Hi, I’m Eliot.”

Quentin takes his hand. This is so middle school he can hardly stand it, but it’s also disarmingly cute. “Quentin.”

Eliot leans across the table, lowering his voice. “So, Quentin, wanna be my pretend boyfriend?”

Quentin swallows.  _ How _ is that sexy? Lucky that he knows better than to fall for that now, and can shake the thought away. “Okay, but we’re going to need some rules.”

Eliot lets go of his hand and leans back in his seat, taking a drink from whatever coffee concoction he has in front of him. “Sure.”

Quentin lets out a breath he isn’t aware he’s been holding. Okay, this is good, everyone’s being reasonable. He pulls a tiny notebook out of his pocket and flips to the page where he started a list earlier. 

Eliot looks amused. “You made an actual list of rules?”

Quentin frowns. “I don’t want to forget anything.”  _ Because you’re distractingly beautiful.  _ He’s...just going to keep that last part to himself. 

Eliot gestures for him to continue. Quentin clears his throat, takes an awkward sip of what turns out to be scalding hot coffee. Not ideal, but he’s still got this. “Um, rule one: we both go to all holiday events for both of our families, even if the schedule gets a little...crowded.” Eliot nods. “Rule two: we don’t tell anyone that our relationship is fake.” Quentin pauses. “With the exception of my friend Julia, who, uh, already knows.” 

Eliot grimaces. “My fr—Todd knows, too.” 

“Okay.” Quentin nods and makes a note in his notebook. “With the exception of Julia and Todd. But we don’t tell anyone else.”

“Great.”

“Rule three: we stay together until January 1st.”

Eliot shakes his head and the notebook slips out of Quentin’s hand towards Eliot’s side of the table. So, casual telekinesis is how he wants to play it. Quentin feels the shiver he always feels around magic—part fear and part exhilaration. Eliot scribbles something, then floats the notebook back to Quentin, who grabs it, annoyed. 

“January 2nd,” Quentin reads.

“I’m assuming you need some big fake blowout to convince your parents, and I plan to be too hungover on the first for theatrics.”

Quentin bites back his impulse to respond that he bets Eliot’s never too hungover for theatrics. No reason to rock the boat, since they’re so close to agreeing. “Fine.”

“That it?” Eliot takes another slow sip of his drink, his eyes locked on Quentin, who is definitely absolutely not watching Eliot’s lips as he drinks, or the way his thumb is absently stroking the mug handle. Absolutely not. 

“No, one more.” Quentin shakes his head, clearing his thoughts, wishing he didn’t feel off-balance and nervous. “Rule four: no physical stuff. I mean, we can hold hands, I guess, but, um, no more...kissing.”

He’s sure he’s imagining the flicker of disappointment before Eliot sets his face. “No one’s going to believe we’re together if we don’t act like it.” 

Quentin frowns—he’s right, which makes this just a little more complicated, because Quentin’s not actually completely opposed to the idea of kissing Eliot again, he just doesn’t want to get caught up again, and he doesn’t want their arrangement to become needlessly messy when he’s trying to focus on the part of this that will make his dad happier. Maybe they just need more rules to keep from going too far. 

“Fine, but we need a—a code or something, in case it’s...too much.”

“Red is my go-to safe word.”

Quentin nods, struggling to keep his mind from going into the places where Eliot might need a safe word, imagining Eliot tied to a bed, or even better, Eliot tying up someone else, Eliot giving orders while someone knelt at his feet, someone like Quentin...

Quentin snaps back to the coffeehouse, glad there’s a table between them. There’s nothing he should be thinking about less, but his palms feel sweaty and he has to clear his throat a few times before writing “red” in his notebook next to rule four. Thank goodness Eliot seems preoccupied with his coffee and isn’t noticing Quentin’s tiny meltdown. 

“Okay, so, um...good.” Quentin closes his notebook and tucks it back into his pocket, takes another drink of his coffee which, of course, is now too cold. Perfect. 

“Give me your phone,” Eliot says abruptly, and Quentin passes it over. His stomach jumps a bit as he watches Eliot punch in and save his phone number, and the text himself so he has Quentin’s. It’s practical, to have a way to contact each other quickly, and has absolutely no other meaning. He hands back the phone and Quentin stares at Eliot’s name in his contacts for a moment, letting himself pretend it’s more because there’s no harm in silently thinking it. 

“So  _ boyfriend _ ,” Eliot says, “I’ve got a Christmas decorating nonsense evening this Thursday, is that our first “real” date?”

Quentin considers—he’s not making Eliot come to just any stupid family dinner, so there’s nothing until Chanukah starts. And he absolutely definitely knows the “boyfriend” is all sarcasm and should not make him feel fluttery. He  _ knows _ that. “I guess so.”

Eliot takes another sip of his drink and then gets up to leave, smoothing down his shirt as he stands even though there’s no wrinkles (and if Quentin didn’t know any better he’d think it was just to draw his attention to his body). “I’ll text you an address,” Eliot says, squeezing Quentin’s shoulder fondly as he passes by and leaves the coffee shop. 

Quentin sits, staring at Eliot’s back as he leaves, his shoulder tingling slightly where Eliot touched it. Pretending to date Eliot is either going to be the best or worst decision he’s ever made. 

— — 

Quentin is running late. Eliot doesn’t really mind, because he’s on his second glass of whiskey and he’s honestly happier sitting in his apartment waiting than actually starting the ordeal of dinner at Margo’s. His mom has been in town for two days and he’s blissfully avoided seeing her, and when it comes down to it, he’s glad he doesn’t have to walk into that alone, even if he’s only known Quentin for a short amount of time. It’s been ten days since they met; ten days of texting, if infrequently, of Eliot dealing with Todd’s apparent misconception that now they’re good friends because he’s the only one who knows, and of Eliot trying to get comfortable with the idea of dating Quentin. Margo is smart, and she’ll know he’s faking it if he doesn’t at least feign comfort well. That last one takes much less time than Eliot’s comfortable with, it’s too easy to imagine actually dating Quentin, but he’s chalking that up to his panic about his mom. 

His buzzer sounds angrily, interrupting his morose drinking. Eliot walks across the apartment and presses the button to open the front door, unlocking his apartment door and letting it swing slightly open; hopefully it’s Quentin, but if not he’s more than prepared to knock a burglar on their ass. 

In a matter of seconds, Quentin is standing on the threshold, pushing at the door tentatively. He looks pretty good, in a light green button up under his jacket, his hair falling around his face in a way that frames it nicely, his face flushed a little from the cold outside. Eliot almost wants to brush the hair away from his eyes, or pull him down onto the couch—he’s happier to see Quentin than he expected, which is...fine.

Eliot drops his glass on the coffee table and grabs his coat from the back of the couch, walking over to Quentin. “You’re late.”

Quentin sighs. He looks uncertain, like he’s upset but he doesn’t know what to do about it, looking everywhere but at Eliot. Eliot has a strong urge to make him feel better, mostly because he doesn’t want Quentin looking like this for the whole evening and ruining the happy couple illusion. “Yeah, I’m, uh, sorry. My dad...they called from the hospital and—“ he pauses and fiddles with his phone, and when he looks up again he’s attempting to smile. “It’s fine, I’m sure it’s fine, just...I had to take the call but I’ll see him later.”

Eliot frowns slightly. So Quentin’s dad is in the hospital. Eliot doesn’t like hospitals, but he’s looking at Quentin’s face and he’s not sure he can actually pretend to be not worried well enough to be a good fake date, which leaves one option. Eliot sighs. 

“Okay, let’s go to the hospital,  _ quickly _ , and then we’ll do my thing.” 

Quentin looks up at him like he’s certain he’s heard wrong. “Really? It’s not going to ruin your thing?”

Eliot glances at his phone. “We’re already late, what’s another hour or so.”

Quentin smiles gratefully, and Eliot follows him out of the door, glancing back ruefully at the portal he’d built into his wall that leads right to the street where Margo’s apartment is. They’re probably going to have to take a cab now, or, god forbid, the subway. So much less convenient.

They take a cab to the hospital, and Eliot gets the feeling that Quentin would have argued in favor of slower, cheaper transportation if he hadn’t been so worried about getting there quickly. Eliot takes a tiny moment to appreciate that Quentin had still shown up, ready to go to Margo’s, even with this clearly taking up all of his mental energy. It doesn’t mean anything, just that Quentin’s good at keeping up his side of their deal, which is attractive, from a business standpoint. 

When they reach the hospital, Quentin leads them quickly through the maze of hallways, and it occurs to Eliot that this isn’t something entirely new; it’s not that Quentin’s dad fell and broke something and ended up in the hospital, he’s actually  _ sick _ . That’s probably something Quentin should have mentioned earlier—lying to a sick parent feels worse than lying to a healthy one—but it’s too late now. They navigate to a desk where someone points Quentin to the right room. He stands outside the door for a moment, and Eliot stands a step back, unsure if this is the right time for him to start acting or not—if this is meant to be a private moment or not. He can see Quentin’s hand shaking slightly, and without thinking about it, Eliot reaches out and grabs hold of it, aiming for reassuring, and Quentin clutches back. 

Quentin smiles cautiously. “Ready, boyfriend?”

Okay, then. Eliot nods. “Born ready.”

The inside of the hospital room is cold and sterile and everything is weird shades of cream and blue and Eliot absolutely fucking hates it. He didn’t think to bring a flask with him, because they left differently than he was expecting, and that was definitely a mistake. He wonders if there’s a hospital bar he can go to.

Quentin’s dad is sitting on one of two beds, the other one empty; he looks worn and tired but Eliot can see the family resemblance, especially when Quentin walks in and his dad smiles—they have the same struggling to look happy smile. 

Quentin lets go of Eliot’s hand and rushes forward, leaving Eliot to stand awkwardly behind him. Yeah, a drink would definitely be an improvement. He feels out of place, which isn’t a normal sensation for him—Eliot is always dressed just nice enough to fit in everywhere, he’s always noticed, and people always want to talk to him first. He’s not sure Quentin’s dad has even seen him yet. 

“You’re okay?” Quentin asks breathlessly. 

His dad nods slowly. He’s got an IV sinking into his right arm, and Eliot wonders if it’s anything good or just saline. There’s a faint buzzing in the room, either from the lights or all of the equipment, and Eliot doesn’t like it; lots of electricity concentrated like this makes magic less reliable, which means he has less control over the situation. 

“Sorry if they worried you, Curly-Q, I asked them not to call.” 

Quentin gives his dad a half-hug, straying away from his IV. It’s cute, in a little kid way, the nickname and the hug and the actual warm, caring parent-child relationship. Eliot takes a moment to wonder what that’s like, although he’s still not convinced that it’s not just a well-made lie hiding their true (and more relatable) animosity. 

Quentin’s dad seems to suddenly notice Eliot skulking in the back of the room. “Who’s this?”

Eliot steps forward. It’s been a while, admittedly, since he had to try to impress someone’s parent, but he’s good at being whoever he needs to be in any given situation, and that should extend easily to this. The key is to just be incredibly confident, and Eliot is nothing if not that. 

“Eliot, nice to meet you,” he says, extending his right hand. It takes him a moment to realize that’s the exact wrong thing to do when someone has an IV in their right arm, but after a moment Quentin’s dad leans forward and shakes it weakly with his left. 

“Ted.” Quentin’s dad gives Quentin an overtly pleased and knowing look, like Eliot’s passing judgement; which, all things about this situation considered, is a good outcome. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

The ‘finally’ is unexpected, apparently Quentin’s been peddling this particular brand of lie for much longer than he’s let on.

“Quentin says you’re very happy together. I’m glad I get to see him be happy,” Ted continues, like he’s hinting at something, and Eliot struggles to keep his face in neutral-pleasant. 

Quentin comes up suddenly next to Eliot and grabs hold of his hand again, linking their fingers, and looks up at him with an uncertain smile. Eliot can tell Quentin’s nervous—his free hand is rubbing the hem of his shirt and his other palm is warm where it’s pressed against Eliot’s—and he smiles back. This is good, this is couple behavior, although it’s a little weak for his taste, but it’s Quentin’s family, so Eliot lets him take the lead for now. 

“Yeah, Eliot’s great,” Quentin says, still looking at Eliot, and then glancing quickly over to his dad again. “We’re going on this big date tonight, and he knew I needed to stop here first, even if it makes us late.”

It’s weird, because that’s the truth, and Eliot had been planning on keeping this part of their relationship completely in the realm of lies, just to make it easier to remember. Mixing things just leads to uncertainty, and confusion, and he has time for neither. 

Ted laughs, coughing a little, and Eliot can feel Quentin’s hand tense up—the boy really needs a massage or a stress ball or something. 

“Big date, huh? Well, don’t let me keep you,” Ted says, continuing when Quentin looks like he wants to protest, “I’ll be fine, really, go on your date. Good luck.” Ted winks, actually winks, at Quentin, and Quentin’s cheeks color and Eliot is starting to get suspicious. 

“Um, thanks dad, love you,” Quentin mumbles, and then they’re leaving the ugly hospital room, Quentin still holding onto Eliot’s hand and dragging him along. He doesn’t let go until they’re in an elevator, at which point Eliot starts seeing some of the pieces fall into place.

“What the fuck?”

Quentin frowns. “Um, what?”

“Big date? Good luck? You told your parents you were getting engaged.”

Quentin’s flush deepens, and he has the good grace to at least look uncomfortable about it. God, Eliot wants a drink. At least he knows Margo will have alcohol for him. Eliot wasn’t signing up to be a fiancé, and he doesn’t know if he would have agreed had he known this is what Quentin had his parents expecting. There’s no way in hell Margo’s going to buy an engagement, not unless they really, really sell it. Which is what they’ll have to do, apparently, since it’s going to get confusing if they’re pretending to be one thing with one family and another thing with the other. Eliot’s going to have to push the physical boundaries a little further if this is going to look real. Although he’s still waiting for Quentin to confirm his suspicion. 

Quentin nods weakly. He’s still blushing, which is far too appealing to be allowed, even if Eliot is currently annoyed with him. “I, um, told them I was proposing? But we don’t have to. I mean, we could say you said no?” 

Eliot gives him one of his more withering looks. “I thought the whole point of this was playing happy couple.” He’s not wearing some bargain basement engagement ring though, that’s for sure. 

“Yeah, um, right.” Quentin pauses. “Oh, I should’ve gotten a ring...” He looks down quickly at his own fingers, like a ring might have suddenly appeared there. 

“That’s heteronormative bullshit,” Eliot replies. It’s the easiest way out of that, and not untrue. Eliot can always use this as an excuse to buy a nice new ring for himself later this week if he wants to. 

Quentin nods, but Eliot can tell he doesn’t agree, not entirely. Eliot’s willing to bet that whatever Quentin would want to buy would be completely at odds with what he’s making as a book reviewer, and that’s not really appropriate here, not to mention it would put unnecessary strain on their arrangement. Maybe Eliot will let Quentin pick out whatever he buys himself, but he’s not ready to throw that offer onto the table yet. 

The elevator dings open. Eliot glances around the main area for any hint of a hospital bar, even as he knows he’s going to find nothing, but just in case. He has to figure out how they’re getting out of the city to Margo’s now; the train is an automatic no, it will take forever, which leaves taking a car (he’s pretty sure he has access to some kind of car service through the company he’s currently contracting with, and telekinesis comes in handy with stealing cars); or he can maneuver them towards a portal, but there aren’t many of those outside the one in his apartment that land near Margo, and if they go back to his apartment, he’s going to insist on sitting down for a drink, and the loss of momentum will make it unlikely they’ll get to Margo’s at all. So the car, then. Eliot glances over at Quentin; he’s entirely certain that Quentin will vocally disapprove of him stealing a car, but it will definitely be faster if Eliot drives. So what’s one tiny lie on top of a fake engagement? 

“I can get a—” What is it called? “A zipcar through work, near here. Wait out front?”

Quentin nods. That was easy. Eliot finds the sign pointing towards the hospital parking garage and slips around the corner before Quentin can decide to follow him. Hospitals are actually excellent places to steal cars from, because they have some of the only non-valet parking in the city; he walks into the garage and scans for something nice enough to be fast and plain enough that it might be believable as a rental car. 

His eyes fall on a silver BMW 6 series Gran Coupe parked in a “staff only” space. Perfect. Eliot strolls over to it casually; it’s easy, with all these keyless cars now, to look completely normal as he walks to the car and reaches out with his mind, pushing gears until the mechanism clicks and the driver door unlocks. Eliot slides into the driver’s seat, taking a second to appreciate the leather seats before mentally delving into the ignition. He’s had enough practice at this that it’s only minutes before he’s pulling out of the garage (thank you, doctor’s parking permit) and around to pick up Quentin. 

Quentin climbs into the car, looking slightly windswept even though he’s only been outside a few minutes—Eliot wants to brush his hair back into submission, or possibly wrap his fingers in it and tug a little, he’s willing to bet Quentin likes that, most boys with even slightly longer hair do, in his experience. Eliot brushes away the thought for now and pulls away from the hospital, slipping easily into the traffic and maneuvering around all of the slower cars, willing to be that asshole in order to get them out of the city faster. 

“This is a zipcar?” Quentin asks, running his fingers along the stitching on the seat. Fuck, that’s distracting, but Eliot is a very good driver, even when he’s contemplating the idea of Quentin sitting on his lap instead of the passenger seat. It’s been a while since Eliot has fucked anyone in a fancy car...but that’s not what this outing is about. And they still have to talk about how pulling off engaged means more effort than pulling off dating. 

“Absolutely,” Eliot replies. Usually, Eliot would be bragging about his ease of lifting the car, but he suspects Quentin’s reaction might be to try to get out in the middle of traffic, which will only make them later to Margo’s. 

“It’s nice.” Quentin sounds suspicious, but then he shrugs. “I, um, don’t drive, but I always thought these cars were...shittier.”

“Maybe you just have to be with the right driver.” That’s far from Eliot’s best line, and it’s the exact wrong thing to say when he’s trying to pass this off as a shittier car, but Quentin doesn’t ask again, so successful enough. 

They drive in silence for a few minutes, until it becomes too thick for Eliot to feel comfortable with, and he flips on the radio. It’s playing bad pop music, which isn’t Eliot’s thing (rich doctors always have the worst taste in music), but after a few seconds of some girl who’s indistinguishable from everyone else’s vocalizing, Quentin starts humming along. So Eliot decides to leave it on that station, and hold off on the conversation for a little while. 

They’re out of the city and into the doldrums of the north suburbs within half an hour, which is a testament to Eliot’s speeding. Eliot hates the suburbs, they’re open and quiet and boring, and he’s too pretty for them. Then again, so is Margo, but at least she’s here by choice. A stupid, cliched choice, but a choice nonetheless. Meet someone, get married, have a baby, move to the suburbs. You’d have to drag Eliot out of the city kicking and screaming. 

He parks next to Margo’s condo building and they climb the few steps to the door. Eliot grabs onto Quentin’s hand before he rings the buzzer and Quentin looks at him questioningly.

“Engaged, right?” Quentin nods. “My sister Margo is very smart, so we have to really sell it. Casual touching is a nonnegotiable part of that, I’m just getting us in character.” Eliot, at least, is not too upset about the excuse to casually touch. “You can always say ‘red’ if you need to.”

Quentin nods again, and Eliot thinks he seems more secure. He doesn’t want to push his luck here, but the engagement wasn’t his idea, and as long as Quentin seems comfortable, he might try to throw in some casual ass touches, just to get Margo to really believe him. Eliot takes a deep breath. He can do this—he’s Eliot fucking Waugh and he’s not afraid of his mom and she’s going to have to at least pretend to be civil towards Quentin, which means it will all be tense but fine, or it will be a complete disaster, but short. He reaches out and presses the buzzer. 

— —

Eliot’s sister Margo has one of the nicest apartments Quentin’s ever seen. Well, technically it’s a condo, but even so. It’s huge—she says ‘only three bedrooms’ with a shrug like it’s nothing, but Quentin doesn’t even have one bedroom—and it’s decorated beautifully, that style that doesn’t scream opulence but is just nice enough that Quentin is aware that the couch is worth more than one month of his rent. 

Also, Margo is gorgeous. Like, movie star gorgeous. She’s wearing a short blue, lacy dress that somehow looks incredibly sexy and high-class at the same time and compliments Eliot’s navy shirt and black vest combo enough that he wonders if they coordinated on purpose. It’s completely unfair for so much beauty to be concentrated in one family. Quentin feels like a duck among swans, and he wishes he’d worn something nicer, or somehow managed to make himself look less like who he is—he can’t imagine Margo will buy him as Eliot’s boyfriend. Er, fiancé.

It makes him feel sick as soon as they walk in—Eliot is definitely the one appearing to date down here, and what if he can’t pretend to be good enough to fulfill his side of the deal? The thought nags at him while he meets Eliot’s mother, a stern-looking older woman who almost looks like she wants to hug Eliot, until it becomes clear that neither are going to initiate it; Fen, Margo’s wife, who bounces into the living room area for a moment for introductions before racing back into the kitchen, wearing a splattered apron over grey slacks and a chiffon blouse; and the baby Jane, who’s lying happily in a little pen for most of the time they’re there. Eliot had told him only small pieces of information before they came in, so he knows that Margo is a designer and Fen is a chef, and that Margo never wanted kids before Fen convinced her, and that Eliot’s mother is only in town for a few weeks, and that he resents every minute of the visit. 

They sit on a couch next to a giant fir tree, drinking red wine that tastes expensive, and Quentin listens while Margo and Eliot swap stories about difficult clients from the past week, catching either Eliot’s mother or Margo sizing him up everyone once in a while. Eliot let go of Quentin’s hand earlier, but now Eliot wraps his hand around the back of the couch, grazing his shoulder—Quentin tries to ignore the flips his stomach does every time Eliot moves and his arm presses against Quentin for a moment. He’s glad he has the drink to focus on, and that he can zone out and look around the place, or out the window at bare tree branches swaying. 

“So, how long have you two known each other?” 

Quentin’s attention flips back to the conversation. Eliot’s mother is watching them expectantly; Eliot’s hand grips his shoulder quickly, and Quentin tries to relax against him—they have to sell it, they have to sell being in love and getting married, just until January 2nd. That’s the deal. 

“Long enough,” Eliot says.

“Margo never said.” It’s pointed; Margo talks to their mother, and Eliot doesn’t. “I know you tell  _ each other _ everything.”

Quentin swallows a burst of guilt followed by suspicion—Eliot said only one person knew about their arrangement, but he’s not sure how Margo could know everything about his life and just accept a very sudden engagement, and the last thing Quentin wants is to throw a wrench between them. 

“It’s...uh, when it’s right, you just know, right?” Quentin hides behind his wine as soon as he finishes talking, hoping it’s anywhere near the right thing to say. Eliot doesn’t exactly strike him as the hopeless romantic type, but they don’t know Quentin, and he’d rather seem the naive lover than have it look fake.

Margo glances towards the kitchen, then back at Quentin, still looking suspicious, but he gets the sense she’s deciding to like him in spite of it. “Well, I think it’s great Eliot’s finally holding down a man.”

Eliot’s mother nods, but it does nothing to clear the ambient discomfort from the room. It’s a relief when Fen pokes her head out from the kitchen and calls them all to dinner, and they all get fresh glasses of wine and plates piled with delicious looking foods. Quentin loses himself in the meal, and there’s enough to taste that the awkward conversation can be blamed on full mouths instead of discomfort. Plus, Fen and Margo are good hostesses, and seem able to carry the conversation completely while Eliot interjects and his mother and Quentin mostly sit quietly. 

Dinner consists of multiple courses and takes longer than Quentin is expecting, and he’s exhausted by the time they’re done, from the tension of pretending and the stress simmering below the surface about his dad, and overall being on edge for an entire day. He’s looking forward to going home, and lying down in his bed in actual quiet and being by himself. But apparently, Eliot’s family doesn’t do holiday dinners without accompanying events. 

“It’s all about the tree-trimming,” Fen whispers to Quentin as he drags himself away from the table after everyone else. “Margo and Eliot like to have to best decorations, even if we’re not having a party this year.” She nods at the baby monitor, since Jane is already tucked away into a bedroom. “It’s a thing.”

Quentin nods like he understands, and it’s not really a surprise knowing the little he does about Eliot and Margo. He’d be more likely to appreciate the barely-masked happy expression on Eliot’s face as he pulls ornaments out of a box, however, if he hadn’t felt more like crawling into a dark room than pasting a smile on his face and sitting in a circle of people who know each other better than he knows any one of them. 

He settles into the couch and after a few moments, the other four seem to forget him, crowding around the tree and the storage boxes housing the decorations, and Quentin relaxes slightly. He watches Eliot’s face, noting how it softens when he’s talking to Margo, and hardens every time he remembers his mother is there, every time she sends a passive aggressive comment in his direction. Fen jumps in between everyone, grinning and pulling out ornaments and stringing lights and greenery across the apartment gleefully. Quentin can see how she and Margo fit together, even though they don’t seem like they would. 

Fen offers everyone an after-dinner cocktail of some kind, and Quentin accepts it, sips at it while Eliot and Margo down theirs in moments, and Eliot’s mother puts the glass aside like it’s distasteful as soon as Fen’s back is turned. Quentin usually drinks the on-sale, screw-off cap bottles of wine, and here he’s had amazing wine, and what tastes like top-shelf liquor. It’s going to his head, a little, and he’s slightly afraid he’s turning into a sloppy date; he knows he’s grinning at Eliot like an idiot, and not playing it cool at all. 

Eliot turns suddenly to look at Quentin, and holds out an ornament. It’s a star, he thinks, porcelain in white and colors and gold, ornate and beautiful. Eliot beckons him over and Quentin lifts himself off the couch; Margo plugs in the tree lights, and damn, Eliot is beautiful, the little lights hitting him softly like the first time they met, but this is more intimate, like he’s surrounded by fairies. It’s a ridiculous thought, and Quentin giggles childishly—yeah, he needs to stop drinking. 

“Oldest ornament honors go to the newest person, that’s the rule,” Margo says as Quentin comes over to them and reaches out to take the ornament from Eliot, keeping their fingers in contact for far longer than is necessary while it changes hands. 

Eliot smiles uneasily as Quentin looks at the ornament, misinterpreting his slowness to grab it as reticence, instead of fascination. “You don’t have to.”

“No, um, no. Rules are rules?” Quentin watches Eliot’s face, the ornament heavy in his hand. This is what they’re supposed to be doing—acting a part, looking like they want to be involved in each other’s life, taking part in things to shift away some of the attention of their families from themselves. And Quentin isn’t going to back down from it, even if he feels a little bit wobbly. 

“It goes near the top,” Margo says. “Fen usually has to stand on a chair.”

Quentin frowns. He doesn’t think he needs a chair—the tree isn’t that big after all. Plus, he knows he’ll look like an idiot trying to climb on a chair while holding something breakable, and feeling tipsy and warm, and he wants to look good in front of Eliot, even though it doesn’t matter. It’s not like he can get rejected, because there’s nothing there in the first place. But, still. He leans up towards the tree, standing on his toes and stretching towards the top branches, the ornament dangling from his fingers. 

Which is his first mistake. 

His second mistake is taking his attention, fuzzy as it is, off of the ornament and back onto Eliot when Eliot laughs at something Margo says. Quentin isn’t even sure what she says, just that Eliot laughs, and he’s close to him, and there’s something about it that makes Quentin want to look and be part of it, even though this really isn’t the time for multitasking. Because as he turns, he hooks the ornament on a branch, he thinks, it’s completely secure, hanging on a tree branch, like it’s supposed to, and he can turn away, swivel on his toes and let go of the ornament and look at Eliot and crash.

The ornament tumbles off of loose needles and branches and comes to a crashing halt on the wooden floor, shattering into millions of pieces. 

The conversation around him stutters to a halt, and Quentin can feel the hot embarrassment of many eyes looking at him, looking at a shattered ornament, and he doesn’t even have a real love to fall back on. Fuck.

“Oh fuck, I am—oh fuck—I am so sorry!” Quentin bends down, looking at all of the pieces. Quentin can hear his mother’s voice in his head chiding him; he shouldn’t have taken it, should have known better, this is what he does, he breaks things. 

“It’s...okay,” Eliot says, slowly, and Quentin feels his hands on his arms, feels Eliot press his body against Quentin’s like he’s reassuring him, like this is normal. Quentin can’t actually believe how much he’s fucked this up already. “It’s just a thing,” he continues, as Margo comes over with a small broom and dustbin to sweep the pieces into. 

“That was your grandmother’s,” Eliot’s mother says softly. “Where is the respect?” She’s glaring at him (and rightfully so) and Quentin wants to disappear. 

Eliot presses himself harder against Quentin, and Quentin realizes he was swaying towards the tree, that Eliot is merely stabilizing him. He whispers, so quietly that Quentin can only hear because Eliot’s mouth is so close to his ear. “It’s okay,” he whispers, as Margo says, “So it’s an old thing. Still a thing.”

“But I’m, uh, sorry I broke it. The thing,” Quentin insists, and he’s surprised when Margo finishes sweeping and starts to laugh.

“Listen, it’s not a real party until some idiot breaks something,” she says, then to Eliot, “I’m just glad he waited until the baby was out of the room.”

“Yeah, well. I’ll deal with this.” Eliot takes the dustbin from her, still holding Quentin with the other hand. Eliot’s mother makes a sound somewhere between a huff and a sob as he pulls Quentin somewhat roughly behind him into the kitchen. It occurs to Quentin that Eliot might actually be angry, and that all of the “it’s okay”s were just an act.

When they’re out of view, and Eliot lets go of him, Quentin’s certain of it and feels the shame of the moment overflow. “Fuck, Eliot, I’m so sorry.” 

Eliot shrugs, his expression tired but not angry. “Don’t worry. Breaking a family heirloom is probably the best way you could have taken the attention off of me, although this one was pretty.” He considers the dustbin full of pieces. “It would be nice if I could put it back together, but detail magic was never my strong suit.”

Quentin’s heart jumps into his throat. He could do it, he could fix it—sure, he’s out of practice, and he hates to admit to anyone what his magic is, but this is his fault and he could reach deep to that part of himself that he denies and he could fix it. He just. Isn’t sure how to put himself out there like that anymore, how to try without feeling the panic of maybe failing. Or of Eliot laughing at him. 

Quentin remembers finding out his discipline, the seat of his magic; remembers the butterflies in his stomach and the panic floating around his head, and the dull thud of reality when he found out. Minor mending. Some people get to read thoughts or move things with their minds, and Quentin gets repair of small objects. Which was embarrassing enough, and caused enough derision, that he decided fuck it, he’d rather give it up than have it and be less than the best. Really though, he should offer to try.

“Plus,” Eliot breaks through the thought, “if it suddenly was whole again my mother would definitely be suspicious.” 

“She doesn’t know that you’re..?”

“We’re not close,” Eliot replies, putting the dustbin down on the counter. “In case that isn’t obvious. I’ve spent years becoming someone who lives out of their grasp, no way I’m giving them even clues on how to reach me again.”

Quentin wants to ask more, but Eliot’s face says not to, and he’s already done enough to ruin the evening. He’s already broken something, better not to press his luck. 

Eliot shrugs, sifting through cabinets until he finds another bottle of something caramel colored and a glass to pour it into. “Want any?” Quentin shakes his head, but Eliot isn’t even looking at him as he takes a long drink, steadying himself against the countertop. 

Eliot drains his glass, then drops it into the sink. He walks over to Quentin and puts a hand on his waist, using the other to muss up Quentin’s hair. He smiles slightly when Quentin looks at him questioningly. “We have to make it look like we fought and made up, right?” 

Quentin nods. He’s still feeling tipsy enough that the contact doesn’t bother him as much as make him nervous, the hot feeling of Eliot’s hand pressed against his waist, running through his hair, making him think things he really shouldn’t be thinking. 

“I’m going to kiss your cheek, okay?” He waits for another nod and then presses a kiss to Quentin’s skin, closer to his ear than his mouth. Quentin feels his cheeks start to burn, and Eliot pulls back and grins. “Perfect, you look like we made up, now.”

He moves to grab Quentin’s hand and Quentin holds back a little, a thought occurring to him. “Give me a second, okay?” Eliot shrugs and walks away, leaving Quentin in the kitchen alone. He takes a paper towel and pours the remnants of the ornament carefully into it, wrapping the whole thing up and sneaking around the edges of the living room to slip it into his coat pocket. Maybe he  _ can  _ fix it, once he’s out of their view, and bring it back to Eliot once this is all over.

He can tell as soon as he reenters the living room, his face still red from embarrassment at his unwanted feelings, that Eliot’s plan is working, from the way Eliot’s mother gives them a look with her nose upturned, and from the way Margo beams like it’s her birthday. Apparently, it doesn’t take much for Quentin to look like he’s been utterly ravaged, and the fact that it’s a lie is only a slight disappointment.

“Everything okay?” Fen asks, beaming, and Quentin sees that she’s stuck another star-like ornament, one that looks extremely sharp at the points, near the top of the tree.

“Grand,” Eliot says, smiling and licking his lips. God, Quentin wishes he had actually gotten the opportunity to be ravaged. 

“You better not have made a mess in my kitchen,” Margo says with an eyebrow raised, looking like she actually hopes they did. Eliot’s mother has an expression like she smells trash. 

Eliot grins at her and actually winks, which would be gross if he wasn’t so ridiculously gorgeous and if all the blood in Quentin’s face wasn’t concentrated around the spot where Eliot had briefly touched his lips. 

“Well, it’s been an eventful enough evening for me,” Eliot’s mother says, standing and moving towards the hallway, glancing at him uncertainly. “Nice to meet you, Quentin. Good night.”

“Yeah, um, thanks, you too. Good night,” Quentin manages before she’s gone.

Eliot rolls his eyes, but stops when Margo fixes him with a look. It’s interesting, how the facade around Eliot shudders when he’s with his family, and he seems almost like a normal person, instead of someone untouchable. Quentin kind of likes it. 

“Guess that’s our cue to leave, too.”

Margo shrugs. “Congratulations, you made it through evening number one with mom, and with only a single casualty.” She stands up and walks towards them, glancing at the tree, and Quentin feels a wave of embarrassment again. “Calm down,” she says, nudging him with her hip as she passes. “This could have been much worse. Trust me.”

Quentin smiles and wonders what the hell happened the last time Eliot and his mother were in the same place. He’s still not sure if he’s allowed to ask or not…he’s guessing not. They follow her to the front closet, and Quentin and Eliot linger near the doorway, getting their coats on. Quentin has to admit, he’s relieved to be leaving, and he only realizes how much when he’s actually putting on his coat and the end of the evening is in sight. Maybe he’s going to be able to bond with Eliot’s mother after all, over their shared distaste of long evenings. 

“Hey!” Fen cries as they’re turning to leave. “Look!” She’s pointing above their heads and Quentin is half expecting to see something really shocking, instead of a tiny sprig of mistletoe. 

Eliot smirks. “Really?” Quentin has to agree. Who still puts up mistletoe? He’s always found the whole thing, trying to catch unsuspecting guests in the awkward position of feeling social pressure to kiss, to be both ridiculous and one of those things he hoped would fade with the decline of the ’50s housewife. 

“Come on, it’s a tradition,” Fen says, grinning. “You have to.”

Eliot shrugs at him, and leans in, and Quentin wants to protest because the whole thing is stupid, but his cheek is still burning and he wants to kiss Eliot, he really does. Even if it’s confusing and a mistake, even if it means absolutely nothing except that Eliot wants to keep his sister’s wife happy. 

He lets Eliot lean in, moving slightly towards him, and after a second their lips are meeting, but it’s not the kiss Quentin wants—they’re still proving something, there’s a kind of bold, hurried, pointed pressure to it that feels less like romance and more like a show. Quentin wishes he could pull Eliot back into the kitchen and kiss him there, where it would feel private and personal and real, but this is what he gets and he pushes away every thought to focus on the feeling of it, still better than nothing. He wraps his hand around Eliot’s wrist, because he doesn’t want to be presumptuous, which is ridiculous, but he needs to do something with his hand. He can feel Eliot smile against his lips, and then Eliot responds by wrapping the other arm around his waist. Which improves the kiss by at least fifty percent. 

After a moment, Eliot pulls away a tiny bit, and Quentin knows his face is completely flushed again, which is good, because it just adds to the illusion, right? And he’s definitely not disappointed that Eliot isn’t flushed, doesn’t look affected by the kiss at all. It’s fine because it’s business. Quentin meets Eliot’s eyes and smiles before they completely pull apart. And then belatedly realizes that Margo has her phone out and is clearly taking a picture of them. 

“Hey!”

She shrugs. “This is the most adorable Eliot has ever been, if I didn’t take a photo no one would ever believe it.”

Eliot makes a grab for her phone, but it’s half-assed, and she easily evades him. “Whatever little sister, we’re leaving.” He links his arm through Quentin’s and they turn and walk through the door and then they’re going down the stairs and out the front door to the waiting car and it’s all over. Eliot unlinks their arms. 

“You survived,” Eliot says appraisingly as he opens the passenger door of the car for Quentin. “I’ll give you a lift back into the city, then I have a date with a whiskey bar. Unless...you want to come?” 

Quentin isn’t sure if it’s a real offer or not, but he’s wary of mixing up what this is, of spending time together that doesn’t fit into the mold of the rules. He’s already confused, and he can’t imagine he’s going to look good if he goes out and drinks more, and also he should really check in with his dad again. He shakes his head, depositing himself carefully into the seat, conscious of not giving away the bundle in his pocket, and knows he’s reading too much into things when he thinks he sees a flash of disappointment on Eliot’s face. 

They start driving and Quentin leans his head against the window and tries not to fall asleep as they speed back towards the city. 


	3. Chapter 3

Eliot checks the address again as he approaches the house. It’s so suburban, even more so than Margo’s condo, a little house with a triangle roof in a row of little houses that all look the same. The roof even has that scalloped trim that makes it look like a dollhouse—add a white picket fence and it would be the picture of New Jersey suburban nightmare. 

And apparently, that’s where Quentin’s parents live. Or maybe just his mom. Eliot got confused when Quentin sent him about a thousand texts running down his parents’ history, and he’s not too bothered about walking into this semi-blind. He knows they’re divorced, and he knows he was supposed to dress nicely, and he knows that it’s the first night of Chanukah and that means…something. Eliot never really gave a fuck about Christmas, he’s not looked into the other holidays at all. He actually only knows it’s Chanukah because Todd told him. 

Todd seems to think they’re friends now, and when he bursts into Eliot’s office carrying a bottle of some expensive gin and sits down and pours him some, Eliot doesn’t argue. Even though he’s not a huge fan of gin. Or Todd. Or Todd asking him how it’s going with his ‘boy toy.’ Not that he cares, it’s just…tasteless, somehow.

“So was this guy a hit or what?” Todd had asked, propping his feet up on Eliot's desk and nearly spilling his drink when Eliot accidentally mentally shifted the things under his feet and on top of the desk by a barely perceptible amount. Well, fine, not entirely accidentally. 

“He was fine,” Eliot had replied, trying not to think about how appealing Quentin had looked with his hair mussed and his cheeks red and his lips slightly parted in surprise. 

“So when’s the next date?” 

Eliot had accepted another glass of Todd’s gin, just to justify his continued presence in Eliot's office. “Some thing with his family tonight.” He’d taken a deep drink, the gin burning his throat not unpleasantly. “We’re doing a sort of even exchange.”

“Oh, nice. So it’s like a Chanukah thing? Since tonight’s the first night?” 

Eliot hadn’t known, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Todd of all people, so he’d simply nodded, gesturing with an air of “who does Todd think he’s talking to.” Of course Eliot knows. Todd had looked at him uncertainly before moving on, while Eliot sipped his drink and barely tried to hide the fact that he was paying less and less attention to whatever Todd was saying while he wracked his brain for any vague remembrances of holiday information. 

He’s mostly come up empty though, so he’s standing on outside the house that possibly belongs to one of Quentin’s parents, holding a bottle of wine even though Quentin told him not to bother bringing a gift and wishing he’d put something in his stomach other than gin. Eliot’s not sure why he’s nervous—he’s never had trouble with people, he knows how to turn on the charm and charisma. They’re not even really engaged, for fuck’s sake, but he doesn’t want to let Quentin down—no, no it’s that he doesn’t want to fail to come through on the deal. 

Eliot watches a woman two houses down get out of her car and huddle over her purse, trying to light a cigarette, the pack clutched sideways in her hand as her cheap lighter struggles against the wind. It’s appealing and far too easy for Eliot to lift one of the cigarettes out of the pack as she focuses on the one in her mouth and send it floating swiftly through the air into his waiting fingers. The wind and cold conditions aren’t the best for it, but Eliot manages to conjure a flame quickly, and smiles to himself in satisfaction as he goes to light his excuse for staying outside a moment longer. 

The cigarette has barely touched his lips when the door to the house swings open and Quentin stands in the doorway, smiling nervously when he sees Eliot and beckoning him over. Eliot snuffs out and slips the cigarette into his pocket with only mild regret. Quentin’s wearing a grey sweater that wraps around him perfectly, although the sleeves are a little too long, he’s wearing socks but not shoes, and his face is already getting red from the wind and cold. Eliot doesn’t want to find any of this cute, but fuck, he really does. 

“Are you coming in?” he calls out, then more quietly as Eliot approaches, “Is everything okay?”

Now that he’s closer, Eliot can see that Quentin’s socks have embroidered pictures that he recognizes as cover art for one of those children’s books about Fillory—it’s so dorky and ridiculous that Eliot smiles in spite of himself. 

“Everything’s great. Nice socks.”

Quentin blushes, scuffing his feet against the threshold. “Yeah, well my parents still think I’m eight, and it’s, um, a present so uh.” He shrugs. 

Eliot nods like he understands; no part of him believes that Quentin’s parents had anything to do with his sock choice, but he doesn’t want to make him more flustered. At least, not when it’s about his socks. 

Quentin stands aside and Eliot steps over the threshold. It’s as completely small suburban inside as it was outside. There’s a living room and a dining room and a hallway to the kitchen, ostensibly, and all the furniture is wooden, older but styled in a way that looks simultaneously severe and comfortable. There’s a glass curio cabinet along one wall filled with things that look easily breakable, and nondescript but ornate rugs on the floors; the whole place gives Eliot the feeling of someone trying to look fancy and impressive without actually having things that are either. 

“Are you ready for Coldwater Holiday Number One?” 

Eliot grins. “Absolutely. I am an expert at Chanukah.” He hands Quentin the bottle of wine because no one else is in sight, and he doesn’t want to keep clutching it. Also Quentin looks like he could really use a drink. 

“Uh, thanks.” Quentin moves away down the hallway, stowing the bottle somewhere where Eliot regrettably can’t suggest offhandedly that they open it and get a good start on celebrating. Without Quentin, Eliot hovers by the door, uncertain where he’s supposed to go, and thoroughly uninterested in examining the house much more closely. He awkwardly slips out of his shoes and slides them into the pile of everyone else’s. Maybe he can create some sort of air bubble to take a quick drag off the cigarette inside, and then float the smoky bubble out the door before anyone notices.

He’s starting a tut when Ted pokes his head up over the top of the couch, startling the shit out of Eliot, who manages to just smile in spite of that. He beckons Eliot over. His voice is stronger than when they saw him in the hospital, and despite the fact that he’s lying on the couch, he looks a little bit less pale. 

“Congratulations—Quentin told us how well it all went.”

Ah yes, the fake proposal. Eliot probably should have asked for details on that—they’d just glossed over it with his family and it wouldn’t look good to have different stories now. Luckily, Eliot is an excellent bullshitter, and he doesn’t really expect to be called out since he’s a guest.

“Yeah, it was really...special.” Ted smiles indulgently and Eliot is just glad he can’t tell how stupid Eliot feels saying that. Ted reaches out a hand and Eliot shakes it; out of the corner of his eye, he can see Quentin stifling a laugh, which is completely unfair since Eliot hasn’t broken anything or said anything even remotely inappropriate. 

“Quentin said it was very emotional,” Ted continues and Eliot struggles not to roll his eyes. Pretending to be engaged is one thing, but Margo always handled the crocodile tears when they were younger, and sure, Quentin couldn’t know that but fuck, he hopes he’s not coming across as someone who gets weepy. 

“Well he would know,” Eliot says pleasantly, dropping Ted’s hand as a woman he assumes is Quentin’s mother walks in. Quentin’s friend Julia is trailing behind her, and she gives him a tiny wave and a grin. Right, Julia knows. 

“Oh, you must be Eliot!” She grabs his hand, more of a fond clutch than an actual handshake, a reminder just in case Eliot might have forgotten why he hated this upper-middle class suburban flavor of insincerity. “Quentin was supposed to come get me when you arrived, but you know him.” She rolls her eyes as though she thinks he’s going to side with her and not Quentin, as though he might not know about the force these tiny barbs have over time; Eliot smiles his best PR smile and wishes he’d had that cigarette. 

“He only just got here,” Quentin mutters, sounding small now that his parents are both in the room. Eliot is starting to get an idea of how he got into the situation they’re in now. 

“And you know Julia, right?” Quentin’s mother continues, as if Quentin hadn’t said anything. 

“Of course,” Eliot says, and she nods in agreement. “The Willow to my Angel.” Eliot feels underprepared, which isn’t his ideal, but pop culture references are always charming.

Except that Quentin’s mom looks confused and Ted is giving him a look likes he’s just said something incredibly touching and it takes Eliot a moment punctuated by Julia’s barely contained giggle to realize that without context it just sounds like they have the worst pet names ever. Quentin clears his throat, and his mom smiles, brows still knit halfway. 

“Because Quentin’s Buffy?” he attempts, but the expressions don’t get less blank. 

“Right, well, um let’s light some candles, shall we?” She hurries over towards the mantle (of course there’s a mantle, and a fucking adorable brick fireplace) and starts gathering supplies. 

“Nice reference,” Julia mutters, still giggling. “Not sure they got it, but you’re doing great.”

Eliot scowls—she’d better not blow their cover—and Quentin comes up beside him and takes his hand. Eliot is surprised for a moment until he realizes Ted’s attention is fully on them and he should absolutely not give into the temptation to stroke his thumb across Quentin’s knuckles, but Eliot’s never had the best impulse control, and besides, with Ted watching it can’t hurt to look more intimate. Plus, Quentin smells faintly like cooking and fabric softener and something else he can’t quite place but likes. 

Quentin’s blushing slightly, but he’s smiling, and Eliot is glad they’re at least making this look real for his dad. 

“So, Eliot, do you want to light the candles?” Quentin’s mom has flipped off the main lights and is looking at him expectantly, actually everyone is looking at him expectantly, and Eliot has another resounding pang of near regret that he spent the afternoon drinking with Todd instead of researching. He doesn’t have a great excuse, either, it’s not like this an obscure holiday, but to be fair he has no concept of any Christmas traditions except the ones native to his own family. If it were up to Eliot, all of the holidays would involve copious amounts of alcohol, fabulous decorations, and much fewer awkward parental encounters. 

Still, he’s here to appear like an impressive and committed fiancé, and he’s excellent at lighting fires—although it’s going to be more difficult since he hasn’t actually used a real match in many years. He smiles widely. “Of course.”

Quentin’s mom hands Eliot a matchbook and he walks confidently over to the mantle where the menorah sits with two candles in it. Eliot fingers the matchbook skeptically—maybe he can discreetly create a flame in his hand, but he can feel everyone circling around behind him, which really kills the hope for discreet. So instead he just has to lean the other direction. 

Eliot breaks off a match and drags it along the pad, holding it delicately between his fingertips. It takes three tries before one flares into flames, but at least Eliot knows he’s making the motions sexy and fluid instead of just looking like that awkward asshole who can’t light a match and gets mad about it. An injection of sex can save just about every unsuccessful gesture, and it doesn’t hurt that the tiny fire is reflecting nicely off the shining threaded patterns on Eliot’s vest. 

Eliot leans forward towards the candle on the end, and feels Quentin immediately pull forward next to him. 

“Oh, um, hey, let’s do it together.” He puts his hand on top of Eliot’s, guiding him towards the middle candle instead. Oh.

The match light flickers off Quentin’s fingers, and Eliot is momentarily mesmerized by it, the way the light catches in the tiny ridges on his knuckles, the rough patches and scrapes; Quentin doesn’t take care of his hands, not the way Eliot does, but then again he didn’t grow up on a farm, and doesn’t have the same need Eliot does to keep his own moisturized and protected. They light the candle and Quentin holds his hand on Eliot’s just a little too long, one step past helping direct him. 

The flames lick the tip of Eliot’s finger and he shakes out the match instinctively, and Quentin moves his hand away quickly. Eliot clears his throat and reaches for another match, but Quentin quickly reaches forward again and indicates the already lit candle. Okay, light the one with the other, easy enough. 

Eliot lifts up the candle and Quentin and Julia and his parents start an incredibly out of tune but enthusiastic rendition of a prayer that Eliot tries to hum along with, because it seems rude to be the only silent one. He gets both candles lit and replaces the first one, letting the golden light and the embarrassing comfort of the family singing wash over him. Eliot didn’t get holidays like this growing up, he doesn’t remember the whole family doing anything but austere Christmas dinners and maybe a present if they were lucky; he gets more of it now, with Margo and Fen, but it’s still this foreign, It’s-A-Wonderful-Life black and white fantasy, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it standing around him. 

The singing ends, and Quentin’s mother goes to turn the lights back on, and everything is brighter and more falsified again—Eliot likes it better, he can live in the fake smiles and fiberboard world more easily than the candle-lit, quiet moments. 

“Amen,” she says, again, belatedly, and Eliot gets the feeling he was supposed to do something else that he didn’t know about. So he mutters an “amen” with as much solemnity as he can muster, leans forward quickly, and blows out the candles. 

Eliot has a moment of being pleased with his performance, and with barely any preparation, before Julia starts laughing (and immediately stops herself). Eliot glances over at Quentin questioningly and is met with a look of mixed horror and amusement. The moment stretches into awkward silence, and Eliot still isn’t sure what he did, but immediately starts trying to think of ways to save the moment. Light grey smoke unfurls from the tips of the candles and drifts listlessly into the air; it smells like the memory of a birthday, although at his last birthday Margo created candles that let off smoke in different shapes (some of them incredibly R-rated) and burnt with a color-changing flame. 

Quentin’s mother clears her throat, apparently coming to terms with that fact that no one is going to say anything. “Well.” Pause. Eliot’s wonders if he could do some really quick color work to the smoke, maybe something needed to be more impressive. “Okay, then.” Ted lifts himself off the couch and they walk out of the room, Quentin’s mom shaking her head and gesturing vaguely for them to follow. 

“An expert, huh?” Quentin whispers, hiding his grin behind his hand.

“Well, I did a google search.” Eliot isn’t about to admit that he put so little time into preparing for the holiday; besides, there was nothing about that in the rules, and he likes that he made Quentin laugh, even if it’s a little bit  _ at _ him. 

Julia scoffs. “Even google knows you’re not supposed to blow them out.”

Eliot considers replying with a quip about being too good at blowing things, he just can’t help it—a little laugh, knowing smile, brushing back his hair, licking his lips like he doesn’t know what he’s doing—but decides it might not be the place for that. Regretfully. 

He just smiles instead. “Well, I thought about googling. And that’s what counts.”

Quentin exchanges a glance with Julia before they both start giggling, Julia rolling her eyes; Eliot tries not to think about how much he wishes he was the one Quentin was enjoying this moment with, after all he’s the one who deserves the smile. Maybe Julia could just fuck off for a little while; if only. 

“So what happens now?”

Quentin shrugs. “Dinner mostly.”

“You get to watch the rare dance of the divorced parents who can’t stop inflicting family holidays on their adult son. Lucky you.” 

“It’s, um, not that bad.” Quentin shoots Julia a glare, which Eliot appreciates. Not that he’s capable of getting scared off, since this isn’t even a real date.

Julia shrugs and walks away toward what Eliot assumes is a formal and uncomfortable dining room. He can’t decide if he really likes her or absolutely hates her, but he’s pretty sure his opinion will be one of those and not somewhere in the middle, and as Quentin’s childhood friend she has more reason to be there than he does, so he has to at least tolerate her. A thought suddenly occurs to him. 

“Do you have one of those perfectly laid out, untouched in years, shrines of a childhood bedroom in this house?”

Quentin laughs, and now it’s aimed only at Eliot, and he’s surprised by how much he likes it.

“In my dad’s house. Complete with, um, Fillory themed sheets on the bed.” He shrugs, but it looks sad. “My mom isn’t that...sentimental. She uses my room for storage, I think.” He looks at Eliot like he’s daring him to say something, to be condescending or judgmental or just lack sympathy. Eliot knows this feeling, though, he saw pictures of the debris left of his room when he left home unannounced—he was old enough that it wasn’t running away, not really, and he’d expected the angry ‘good riddance,’ but not the subsequent attacking of his room with a drunken baseball bat, even though by then he’d been long gone—

“It’s not you, you know that, right? Sometimes parents just suck.” Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s shoulder, and his breath catches when Quentin leans into it, maybe not even consciously, pressing their sides together, his hair brushing Eliot’s shoulder. Normally, this is when Eliot would produce drinks out of thin air and start the slow progression of his hand downwards, until it became too much pressure to stand. Until they ended up in bed and Eliot could tell himself to enjoy it and then to get up the next morning and not look back. Except that this wasn’t normal, and without a childhood bedroom to sneak up to and defile, he wasn’t going to get far with normal tactics. Which, really should be less disappointing.

Quentin sighs, and Julia reappears with what looks like three water goblets filled almost to the brim with red wine. That is definitely a point in her favor. Eliot accepts his glass with a smile and Quentin hesitates for a moment, then does the same. He takes a sip—it’s not great wine, but there’s a lot of it, and Eliot’s momentary musings on his old bedroom had thrown him more than he likes to admit, so the distraction is a welcome one. 

“My hero.”

Julia shrugs, but she looks pleased. If only it was this easy to read Quentin. “Trust me, you’re going to need at least this much wine to deal with Quentin’s mom.” 

Quentin frowns, but he’s sipping the wine, and he’s still nestled up against Eliot, looking up at him. “She’s not that bad.”

Eliot smiles, and Julia never has to know that it’s not sincere. Sure, Quentin’s mom does seem a little bit overwhelming, and she certainly doesn’t seem to think highly of Quentin (and considering Eliot feels annoyed by this after knowing him for two weeks, he thinks she’s actually in the wrong there), but it could definitely be worse. 

“You should see the size of the glass it takes to deal with mine,” he says.

Julia quirks her eyebrow at him; he knows she’s formulating her own opinion of him, but he’s optimistic. She looks like she’s about to say something when Quentin’s mom walks back into the room, carrying a platter of something and looking friendly, if annoyed. Her expression softens slightly when she sees Quentin standing curled into Eliot’s side. Eliot suspects she likes those sappy tv romance movies, but doesn’t really believe in love like that in real life; she thinks they’re cute, but her eyes say she doubts it will last. 

“I hate to break this up, you look so sweet together,” she says, “but the food is getting cold.” She turns and walks away briskly, assuming they’ll follow. 

“You really do make a cute couple,” Julia says, loudly enough that Eliot suspects it’s for Quentin’s parents’ benefits, but if they were far enough away not to hear her disparaging comments before, he doubts they can suddenly hear her now. Odd.

Quentin smiles, but he also looks confused. “Right. So, um, are you hungry?” He pulls himself away from Eliot, untangling slowly but determinedly from under his arm; it’s surprising how cold Eliot’s side feels now, how much he misses the pressure. If only they didn’t have that last rule. Still, no rule saying how much Eliot can push his luck flirting. 

“I might be.” For cigarettes and wine and Quentin. But he doesn’t say any of that.

“My mom cooks way too much for these things. So there’s a lot of food.” He pauses. 

Eliot smiles. “I can handle that.” 

— —

Eliot slides onto a bar stool, drums his fingers absently on the polished wood of the bar. His phone buzzes: Margo’s going to be late—she’s already late—but he should order them drinks, sit in the regular spot. This is something they do, meeting in this particular bar, having drinks and spending time the way they used to when they were still new to New York, still curing the molds for their future selves. When they first moved, it was a shabbier place in the East Village, now it’s one of those intentionally shabby-chic bars, with purposely uncomfortable bar stools and mismatched tables and string lights floating around ceiling; sometimes they project old movies on the back wall, flashes of black and white. It’s terrible, but it appeals to the more romantic side of Eliot’s aesthetic, and he knows Margo loves it too, even though both of them pretend to hate it. 

He waves the bartender over and orders two drinks, leaning up against the bar. The bartender smiles and moves away to make the drinks. He’s young, and blonde, and pretty, and when he bends over to grab an extra bottle, Eliot can’t help but appreciate the curves of his ass; he must be new, and Eliot would normally ask for his number, slip some innuendo into the remaining conversation, drape himself more fully over the bar—but he doesn’t want to, for some reason. Or rather, he wants to, he’s already imagining how good the guy would look against his bedsheets, but something stops him. It’s Margo, he thinks, it’s because it would look pretty bad if Margo walked in and he was getting some guy’s number when he’s supposed to be engaged and she already doesn’t believe him. Which is, honestly, just more heteronormative bullshit and the reason he’s absolutely never getting married for real, but he can handle it for a week, and the bartender will probably still be there in the new year. 

He settles for tipping the liquor bottle a little farther than the bartender plans once it’s already pouring into the shaker; if he can’t get laid tonight, at least he can get a stronger drink. The bartender finishes and slides the drinks across the bar to Eliot. 

“I’ll start a tab,” Eliot says, sliding a card back and grabbing the glasses. This is something he likes, the sweating cold of the glasses, the anticipation of enjoyment. 

“If you give me your number, they’re on the house,” the bartender replies. 

Eliot smiles. He likes being lusted after, he likes the way the bartender is eyeing him; he’s not about to abandon Margo to take advantage of the moment, but he’s not going to crush the opportunity either. 

“Interesting offer.” He lifts the drinks off the bar, raises an eyebrow, smiles in a way he knows will get a reaction. “I’ll consider it.”

Eliot walks away, basking in the thrill that still comes with knowing someone’s watching him, the feeling of eyes sweeping across him as he settles into their normal booth in the corner, his back to the bar. 

He takes a drink—it’s not bad, although he should have tipped the bottle even farther; weak drinks are not one of Eliot’s many turn-ons. He only has to sit alone for a few minutes before Margo’s walking into the bar. She sweeps in like a storm; he can feel her before she comes into view, and he wonders not for the first time how their mother, who has barely any presence at all, is enough to subdue Margo’s power.

Margo deposits herself on the bench opposite him, throwing her coat on the seat next to her, something fashionable with shiny buttons that catch the light pulsing off the wall behind her. 

“Finally,” Eliot says, pushing a glass to her across the table and smirking. Margo is never late, he deserves to gloat. 

“Pre-Christmas traffic is a fucking nightmare,” she replies, taking a deep drink and shrugging. “Idiots all out shopping at the last minute.”

Eliot grimaces—fuck, he forgot to get Christmas presents. Or rather, he’s put it off, because he can’t exactly show up for Christmas without a present for his mother, and he can’t think of anything he wants to do less than figure out what that present should be. 

“Don’t worry,” she continues. “I already got mom something, it can just be from both of us.” 

He hides his relief in another sip, nods nonchalantly like he’s grateful and wasn’t freaking out about it or anything. Not that he’s capable of hiding this from Margo, who knows him well enough to read every expression, who anticipated his inability to shop for their mother, who is always there to take charge and figure out the things he wants to hide from. “Thanks.”

“You’re still an idiot though, you have to get things for me and Fen and Quentin.”

She says Quentin like she’s unsure of how to fit the word in her mouth, like she’s trying not to get too used to it; annoyance rushes through Eliot for a moment, before he remembers she’s right. Still, it irritates him, the idea that she can’t even for a second think that it’s real; he wants her to believe the lie, he wants the disappointment to bounce off of him, and he knows that part of it is his mother’s influence, but part of it is just that they’re older, they’re adults, and Margo has an adult life, and he still doesn’t.

“Sweet of you to worry.” 

She raises an eyebrow, and they sit sipping in silence for a moment. Their silences are usually so comfortable, it’s starkly apparent that this one isn’t quite the same. He can tell she’s gearing up for a question, folding it over in her mind before speaking. He tries to brace himself, wishing it wasn’t so difficult for him to lie to her.

“This thing with Quentin, you’re serious? I mean, he’s not just like some stripper you picked up and paid to come to family holidays or something?” 

Eliot swallows. Too close, far too close for comfort. He’s not sure why he thought he could lie about this to Margo, she’s always been able to see right through him, even when they were kids and he was lying to protect her from the reality of their family. 

He forces a casual laugh. “Can you imagine Quentin as a stripper?” He takes a moment to imagine that, himself, and the resulting image is...well, it’s not unpleasant. Margo smiles slightly and he can tell she’s imagining it, too, although possibly through a different lens. 

“Not a good one, but...” She pauses. “You know what I mean. This thing, this engagement, it’s real?”

Margo looks straight at him, and the look is almost enough to make him walk all of this back, admit the truth and if she can’t assist him in keeping it real for their mother, then so be it. He wants to tell her everything—all about Quentin and how he’s not really even hating the time they’re spending together, how he started this as a fuck you and now he’s vaguely looking forward to their next “date”—he  _ wants _ to. And he could; he could tell her, but it would hold the implicit acknowledgment that he hadn’t told her from the start, that he doesn't trust her, that he felt he had to lie. Better for her to think the lie is small, that he didn’t tell her about this serious thing brewing until he was certain, that it pained him but he’s terrified of commitment—she knows that, it won’t even sound like a lie.

And it’s only one more week. Then she can watch it fall apart and they can sit in this booth or on the floor of his apartment passing a bottle back and forth and she can tell him about all of Quentin’s faults and how he’s better off and then their mom will leave and things can go back to how they were before. 

“Yes.” He injects his voice with surety, pulling back his guilt. “It’s real.” 

Margo’s face falls, just a little, but enough that Eliot notices, enough that she quickly hides her expression behind her glass, and when she puts it down again her expression is closer to perfect than wounded. Eliot swallows down more guilt. This was all supposed to be the easy and fun way out of any real interaction with his mother, and instead it’s becoming this thing he has to actually deal with. 

“How the fuck could you get engaged and not tell me right away?” She’s leaning across the table, and her words are sharp but her voice is measured. Margo is a pouncing creature, waiting tensed until the moment to strike. Which effectively means Eliot still has time to deescalate the situation. 

“Margo.” He’s building a speech in his head about how hard it’s been for him to fall for someone, how terrifying, so much that he could barely acknowledge it. It’s straight out of Dawson’s Creek, but the foundation is real. He waits for her to pause. 

“I mean, sure, I get springing it on mom, that had to be fun for you. But you should’ve told me.”

It stings, a little. Eliot remembers Margo rushing into their apartment, breathless and flushed and late at night. He’d looked at her and grinned and told her her dress was on inside out. She’d brushed off the comment, flying past small talk, jumping onto the couch next to him. “I met someone.” She’d run straight from Fen’s bed to tell him, to tell him first. And now it looked like he’d kept the same from her. 

“You’re right,” he says, and she softens a tiny bit; Margo always does like to win. “I screwed up, I should have told you.”

“Fucking right you should have.” She drains her glass and pushes it, empty, towards him. “You can start making it up to me with another drink.”

Eliot smiles and downs the rest of his drink, scooping up the two empty glasses and retreating to the bar. The bartender comes over to him right away, dropping another guy mid-sentence. 

“Two more, and make them strong this time.”

The bartender (Eliot should really ask his name) smiles uncertainly. “Problems with your...girlfriend?”

Smooth. “Sister.”

The bartender grins, pouring a liberal amount of liquor into the shaker. Not enough that Eliot still doesn’t help tilt his hand a little more again. 

“So.” Eliot looks him up and down—hot in that homegrown football star turned bad boy in college kind of way. Not the most interesting, but good enough for one night. “You gonna give me your number this time?”

Eliot shakes his head slowly as he watches the bartender pour the drinks more languidly than is really necessary. “But it gets more likely with every shot.” He can see the guy almost jump to pour in another one, even though Eliot has the glasses in his hand now, and then reconsider. It makes him feel powerful. 

Eliot walks back to the booth and hands one glass to Margo. She sips and nods appreciatively. This drink is more to both of their liking, alcohol-content-wise. 

“Okay...it’s real, fine. Tell me about it now.”

Eliot nods. “What do you want to know?” 

“Everything. How did you really meet, what do you love about him, how is he in bed? Normal fiancé stuff.”

Eliot swallows. Usually, details make lying easier, it becomes a story construction, as long as you’re careful. He had given her a few details over the phone, but nothing substantial. Still, he has to stick to the details Quentin can corroborate, since he’s sure talking to him is Margo’s next move, just to be sure. He really can’t blame her, but he doesn’t want a slip-up to be how this all ends. So he goes with some version of the truth. 

“We met online.” Margo raises an eyebrow at him. “Modern romance, right?” Eliot takes a drink from his glass, stalling. Margo and Fen met when Margo had a dinner meeting that went terribly wrong and Fen overheard her telling a group of rich white men to go fuck themselves, only with more creative language. Meeting online lacks the drama, but it wins in the plausibility category. As long as she’s willing to believe Eliot needed an online profile to meet guys. Lie part two.

“I made one ages ago just to see, you know, what the appeal was. Almost entirely ignored it until...I mean, he’s cute, right? Nerdy, sure, but hot.” 

Margo laughs. “He’s your secret type you swore off once we left school and you realized you could do better.” 

That’s...true, actually. Except he’s not sure he’s been doing better, not really, and he’s fully aware that she doesn’t think so either—this conversation is a minefield, but he’s already almost through it. “Maybe, but I like him.” Eliot pauses, building up drama. “Plus he’s a genius at sucking cock.”

Margo’s grin is a relief. Plausible after all. “Well cheers to that.” She lifts her glass and drains it, and Eliot takes a gulp from his own. He’s pleasantly buzzed, and feeling good about lifting the tension even if it’s just by a few inches. 

“So you forgive me?”

“Almost. I need a favor.” With Margo, that could be anything from picking out an outfit to help with a spell to casual felony. 

“What favor?” Keep smiling, take small sips. 

“I need you to babysit. Tomorrow. At 7.” 

Eliot chokes on his drink. “No, absolutely not.”

“But you love Jane.”

“Yes, because I don’t have to take care of her. I just get to be the fun uncle slash style icon who will give her her first illegal drink when she’s a teenager. I know nothing about babies.”

Margo waves his words away. “She’ll be asleep the whole time. Fen really wants to go to this party, and we’ve already committed.”

Fuck. Eliot searches for a better excuse. “It’s Christmas Eve, what if I have plans?” Currently, his only plans involve a specially spelled bottle of tequila, his bed, and whomever he can manage to convince to come over, but Margo doesn’t need to know that.

“It’s fine, Quentin can come babysit, too. I’ll even take mom to the party, so you won’t have to deal with her. Come on, El.”

Eliot really doesn’t think it’s wise to put him in charge of someone else’s life, even if she will be asleep the whole time. Then again, Quentin seems like he’s probably good at this kind of thing, as long as Eliot makes sure he doesn’t accidentally drop her. And Margo’s giving him a look that’s half sad puppy and half threatening and he doesn’t really want to go up against that. 

He sighs dramatically—he can’t let her think she’s won too easily. “Fine, I’ll babysit.”

Margo grins and clinks her nearly empty glass against his. Dramatic sighs aside, she’s clearly considering this an easy victory, and it only irks Eliot slightly. Babysitting on Christmas Eve goes against all of his personal promises to himself about how he ought to be celebrating holidays, but he’s never said no to Margo, and he probably never will. Lying to her about Quentin is enough. 

Grabbing her coat, Margo slides out of the booth and sweeps out as smoothly and grandly as she entered, stopping only to squeeze Eliot’s shoulder fondly. Eliot remembers suddenly when he and Margo were younger, when they could get lost in a crowd easily, when that saved them enough for them to save themselves; now neither of them could walk into a stadium without being noticed, and that’s the way they both want it, but at this moment Eliot wishes he could just hide in this booth and lean into his sister and let her wrap her arms around him and stop pretending that he isn’t absolutely ready for the holidays to end, instead of having to accept a shoulder squeeze with a smile. 

Eliot takes a moment to finish his drink. Babysitting on Christmas Eve, then splitting Christmas between his family and Quentin’s, and inevitably sleeping alone every night. Fucking obligations. He swallows the last drop of alcohol and walks up to the bar, dropping off the empty glasses and waiting for the bartender to notice him. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

“So, your sister left?” The bartender pours Eliot a shot without being asked and slides it across the bar. Good, Eliot appreciates initiative. 

He throws it back. He’s brimming with guilt and dread, although he would never admit that, and he doesn’t want to go home and sit alone—honestly, he wants to call Quentin, but that’s a nonsensical response to recent stress, and not something he should even be considering.

“When do you take a break?” 

The bartender laughs, regret etching his face. “I’m the only one here, so no breaks. My shift ends in an hour, though. By the way, I’m Mike.”

Eliot nods. “Eliot. And I can wait that long.” He pulls out a barstool and sits down, knowing he can lean on the bar and look alluring, that the waiting only builds anticipation. “As long as you can make me another drink.”

Two slow drinks and a quick walk later, Eliot is pressed up against the wall of Mike’s tiny living room, pulling Mike against him with forceful, frantic kisses. Mike moves away from his lips, kissing down Eliot’s neck, his teeth grazing sensitive skin, and Eliot moans. His blood is surging, he’s buzzing with alcohol and desire and a certain amount of smugness. The lights are off, but the street lamp outside filters muted yellow through the heavy glass of the windows, creating a glowing hazy quality to the room; it mixes with the adrenaline and the alcohol and he feels like he’s stepped into a film he can’t quite remember. 

Eliot pulls his focus back to Mike, who’s currently working on Eliot’s shirt buttons. Eliot does the same, and he’s faster so Mike’s shirt is off in a matter of moments, thrown haphazardly on the floor while Eliot’s hangs open around his chest. Mike smiles appreciatively, which is nice, but something feels off. Maybe it’s Margo, guilt still rattling around his brain, distracting his subconscious. 

Mike reaches for Eliot’s pants, and Eliot can see the raw desire in his eyes, his pupils blown out dark and sweat dotting his forehead. Eliot pushes him away, playfully, like it’s part of the game, shaking his head and keeping his eyes on Mike’s face. 

“You first.”

Mike grins. Eliot’s good at this game; the one where he’s in control, where he keeps the time, makes the decisions. The one where boys who took the initiative, who chased him, wait eagerly for the next instruction. 

Mike removes his pants and briefs slowly, a striptease—Eliot has to stop himself from singing cliche music. It should be hot, it  _ is _ hot, and that’s the problem. Mike stands there naked, his skin glowing in the light from the window, his cock hard and prominent against his thin frame. And Eliot is still wearing his pants for some reason. He’s into this, or at least he was into the idea of it, the possibility back at the bar, and what’s the difference?

He needs to focus. It’s been so stressful with his mother in town, and he has to push all of that away, focus on the naked guy in front of him. Mike moves back over to Eliot, pressing himself against him, pushing their mouths together; Eliot almost loses himself in the sensation, he can feel Mike’s cock pressing into his hip, and his own cock twitches, just a little bit, like it’s really trying to join in, but...

Eliot closes his eyes, focusing on the sensations of Mike’s tongue against his, of his hands on bare skin, of the frictional sliding of the cock against his. It works, for a moment; he feels the heat swell through his body and he hears himself moan lightly in response to Mike’s louder noises. The sound helps, sort of, except then his mind starts drifting, away from Mike and this apartment and all of the things he usually looks forward to. 

He starts thinking about what he’s going to wear to Margo’s the next night, even though it doesn’t matter since barely anyone will see him besides Quentin, who doesn’t really count, and oh—he should actually  _ tell  _ Quentin about the whole babysitting date. Seeing him again before Christmas wasn’t part of the plan, but then again their agreement did say any and all family obligations. And there’s something incredibly appealing about it, the idea of seeing him alone, without family or catching up on lies or making rule lists; there’s something appealing about picturing Quentin on Margo’s couch with his guard down, relaxed, sipping wine, removing his sweater once the wine starts making him warm and flushed, smiling at Eliot. It would be so easy for him to lean over and—

Eliot snaps back to reality, his cock twitching and a wave of pleasure flooding his brain. He realizes Mike is palming his (still not really hard, which is a fucking shame) cock through his pants, and he can’t tell if his physical response is because of that or because of the scene screaming to finish playing out in his mind. 

Mike starts unzipping his pants and Eliot sighs. “I’m not sure this is happening.”

He gets a laugh in response, and Mike continues to unzip and pulls down his pants, revealing his mostly soft cock. This would be embarrassing, except Eliot’s not one hundred percent sure he can’t salvage the evening. He’s never going to see Mike again, so what does any of it matter, except to his ego, which is healthy enough to withstand one bad hookup.

“Don’t worry, I got this,” Mike says, taking Eliot’s cock into his mouth.

He’s not bad, running his tongue lightly around Eliot’s cock, gripping his hips as he gently sucks it. But it’s not clicking, even as Eliot acknowledges that it feels fucking good, he can’t keep his mind from wandering, can’t help feeling...something. Guilty, maybe? Like he’d be happier if he left Mike’s apartment and went back to his own. 

Which is not the emotional response Eliot has curated around having his cock sucked. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, and it’s becoming uncomfortable the more he realizes this just isn’t where his head is, and sex isn’t going to be the right kind of distraction. He gently moves Mike’s head away, and Mike looks up questioningly. 

“This isn’t really working for me,” Eliot says, pulling Mike up to a standing position so he can put his pants on again without interference. Mike looks disappointed but not upset, which is good, and he’s still sporting a solid erection, which Eliot is choosing to take as a compliment. 

“You didn’t really let me try,” Mike says, pouting and reaching out for Eliot again, who sidesteps the attempt.

“No point—too many drinks, maybe.” Eliot’s mind lands on the easiest excuse, even though he regularly drinks this much, and does not regularly have this kind of problem. It’s more of a weird emotional block, but he’s barely admitting that to himself, never mind this random bartender who’s a stranger. A naked stranger, but still. Eliot starts buttoning up his shirt again.

Mike huffs a laugh, stepping away but making no move to put on his own clothing. “Guess I made a bad deal then.” 

Regret filters through Eliot’s desire to leave, under different circumstances (ones which he can’t quite put words to, since he’s not sure why these circumstances even went wrong) he’d be thrilled with Mike’s apparent dislike of clothing and like of Eliot. But it just isn’t going to happen. Eliot almost wants to make a comment about how lucky Mike is to have decent heating, if he wants to walk around nude in December—but it seems like it might be the wrong time. 

“Well, I’m worth a little more than a few mediocre drinks,” Eliot responds, shrugging on his coat. “So just count yourself lucky you got to experience any of it.”

“Can I at least have your number?” Mike’s back standing directly in front of him, needy, still attractive but shrinking in stature, as far as Eliot is concerned. 

“Maybe better if you don’t.” Mike looks disappointed, and Eliot buttons up his coat, resting his hand briefly on Mike’s shoulder in a gesture that holds both kindness and dismissal. Eliot’s good at this part, no matter how it arrives. “But Merry Christmas.”

Eliot doesn’t wait to hear a response, just slips out of the door and walks down the stairs and out into the frigid evening air. The street lamps seem brighter, less haunted, now that he’s seeing them outside the glass of the apartment windows. He’s weirdly, abruptly certain he made the right decision. Eliot starts down the street, scanning for an appropriate car to borrow and get himself home. 

He pulls out his phone and texts Quentin, choosing to ignore the lack of hesitation, the fact that he feels so much better than when he was in that stifling apartment. He chooses to ignore the skip in his breathing when his phone vibrates in response. It’s just the circumstances, the intense family stuff and the pretending to be engaged, it’s making everything strange. It’s not that he wasn’t into Mike, and it’s not even that he’d rather be with Quentin it’s just that Quentin is like a sickness, something he’s caught and has to shake, and the only way to do that is to give into whatever lust-driven infatuation is seizing him and then get over it. Eliot’s good at that part.

He stops in front of a car covered in a thin layer of ice (easily melted, not often driven) and pulls out his phone. Quentin’s reply says he can come babysit, and there’s a blushing emoji after it. Eliot smiles and slips his phone into his pocket. He hasn’t forgotten their rules, and he’s not exactly planning on seducing Quentin at Margo’s, but he’s not exactly not planning that either. 


	4. Chapter 4

It’s freezing, and the streets are quiet and getting quieter since he’s left the city on his way to Margo’s apartment. Quentin wishes he’d worn a warmer sweater, instead of letting Julia talk him into the thinner, tighter one—not that anyone is even looking. 

“You never know,” Julia had replied, and honestly, that was enough of an argument. The possibility was enough. 

Right now, Julia is talking about something work-related that he honestly doesn’t care about, not while his pulse is pounding double-time in his ears. His hand feels like it’s attached to his phone now, frozen in an icy grip. 

“Uh-huh, okay, Jules, I should really go.”

Julia pauses. “You’re there already?” Already? He’s been sitting on a series of trains for two hours. 

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well have a good date.”

Quentin sighs. He can hear the mirth in her voice. He can’t wait for the moment when her parents remember she exists and start throwing post-Ivy League assholes at her to date. “It’s not a date.”

“Right.” She sounds thoroughly skeptical. “You’ll call me when you get home?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, bye.”

He hangs up the phone and pries it out of his cold hand, goes to ring the doorbell and instead decides to text Eliot that he’s here, just in case the baby is asleep. Eliot doesn’t reply but after a moment the door buzzer sounds and Quentin steps into the warmth of the entryway. Walking up to Margo’s apartment feels weighty, even though it’s nothing, just another date for someone else’s benefit, and he was supposed to come there in the morning for family Christmas anyway. But it somehow still feels like something bigger, or maybe it’s just the pressure of him and Eliot being solely responsible for a baby, which might be a mistake. 

The door opens after one knock, and Eliot is standing in front of him, light streaming out of the apartment behind him, and seeing him again makes Quentin’s breath catch, even though it’s only been a few days since they were together at his mom’s house. He looks relaxed, his hair slightly less perfect than Quentin’s seen it, and wearing a button-up shirt with some tiny pattern—flowers, maybe? or something abstract—but no vest or jacket, the top few buttons distractingly unbuttoned. Less of a performance, but he’s still beautiful and confident and far too good for Quentin. 

“You made it,” Eliot says, like there was any question, holding the door open for Quentin to step in. 

Quentin fumbles over his “hi.” Good start. Eliot graciously takes his coat and gives him a quick once-over, and wow, in the presence of Eliot’s effortless beauty, Quentin feels especially silly in his attempting-to-be-alluring dark red sweater; he knew he should have worn something baggier. 

“Nice sweater.” 

Quentin can’t tell if it’s sarcastic, so he tries to imbue his “thanks” with enough enthusiasm that it sounds like he at least loves the stupid sweater. 

“Matches your cheeks,” Eliot says, smiling and grabbing his arm as he moves past, leading him into the living room. Quentin feels his cheeks heat up, probably turning even more ridiculously red. Fucking cold weather.

“It’s cold outside, so.”

Eliot makes a gesture that either means he’s acknowledging the cold or he refuses to believe in it. He lets go of Quentin’s arm and Quentin immediately misses the warmth of the contact, which has nothing to do with the weather. 

“Do you want a drink?” 

Quentin nods, then hesitates. “It’s not eggnog, is it?” His father practically forces him to ingest a bodega’s worth of the stuff every Christmas, he’s not eager to start early. 

Eliot shakes his head. “It’s more like a hot toddy, but not quite. Warm and alcoholic, though.”

“Sure.”

Eliot goes into the kitchen to get the drinks and Quentin can’t help but watch as he walks away, appreciating the way Eliot’s clothes fit, the way he moves so gracefully and powerfully. He disappears around the corner and Quentin looks around the living room. It’s the same as the last time he was here, except there are additional twinkling lights scattered around the walls and ceiling, some of which look like they’re not plugged into any outlet. Quentin guesses they claim it’s some hidden battery pack, but he can feel the magic in the air in Margo’s apartment. He was too nervous to notice last time, but now it wraps around him like an embrace, one he’s afraid will stifle him, but still comforting. He’d loved magic once, but after he’d left the boundaries of the school, maintaining that feeling just started to feel harder, more vulnerable. 

Quentin wanders over to the giant tree, which is fully covered in ornaments and lit with hundreds of tiny white lights. It’s beautiful, impressive and with a clear sense of design, not clutter. His eyes catch on one ornament, and he gently twirls it in his fingers. It’s a tiny Fillory and Further book, perfectly made and painted, even with tiny words printed on the pages; Quentin feels a warm excitement flow through him—this is his favorite book, and here it is on Eliot’s tree, in perfect miniature. 

“Oh, yeah, what do you think?” Quentin spins around to face Eliot, who is very close behind him, carrying two steaming mugs, one of which he hands to Quentin. “Margo makes little book ornaments for everyone who’s...part of the family. I told her about your socks, and she’s kind of a nerd too so she knew exactly what it was.” 

Quentin is staring at him open-mouthed, which maybe is rude, but he’s having trouble getting his brain to interpret the words. Part of the family. It makes his stomach hurt with guilt and longing. 

“Do you like it?” Eliot sounds genuinely worried, and cautious, and this is such weird territory Quentin isn’t sure if he should hug him or play it all down. 

“It’s perfect.” Eliot exhales in relief. “Where’s yours?” He reaches up to a tree branch above Quentin’s head and pulls down another tiny book, thicker and more ornately decorated. “The Art of Physical Manifestation,” Quentin reads aloud, then looks at Eliot. “Impressive title.”

“It’s kind of an inside joke.” He shrugs. “It’s an actual textbook I studied my final year in school—portals and all that—which was also when I figured out who I wanted to be.” He gestures at himself. “How I wanted to appear. Margo thought it was an appropriate title.” 

Quentin tries to keep his face neutral; that’s probably the most personal thing Eliot’s said to him, more so than weird family stories or the fake events they’ve agreed make up their dating history. He wants to ask Eliot something, or tell him something, only he’s not sure what, something that will keep them on equal footing. 

But he doesn’t, and the moment passes. 

“So, what should we do?” Eliot smiles, but it’s not entirely genuine, and strides to the couch, throwing himself down like an emperor reclining across his throne. Quentin swallows. 

“Um, where’s the baby?” Slowly, carefully, he makes his way across the floor to the couch. Quentin isn’t sure where he’s supposed to sit, it’s a big couch—too far away could be awkward for conversation, but too close and he risks contact with Eliot’s arm thrown across the top of the back of the couch—he opts for middle-close, just enough that his shoulder is almost brushing Eliot’s fingertips. Why the hell not? 

Eliot gestures at a baby monitor on a side table. “Sleeping, hopefully staying asleep.” He pauses. “I’m not great with babies.”

His expression indicates that he expects Quentin to be shocked at this revelation, as he takes a swig from his mug of hot liquor, and Quentin laughs. “I’m shocked.” 

“Hey, I love Jane. I just don’t think I should be responsible for something this tiny.”

Quentin takes a sip from his mug. It tastes...weird, but it’s warm and fragrant and Eliot  _ made it _ for them, so he likes it overall. “That’s why I’m here, right?” It’s not, Quentin already knows that, basically has the text memorized:  _ date tomorrow at M’s - tried it as an excuse to get out of babysitting, didn’t work. say you’ll come? _

He’s not sure what he expects Eliot to say, but it’s not what he does say. “One of many reasons.” Quentin can feel something fluttery in his stomach, and he struggles to ground himself against the couch fabric, trying not to let himself think anything of what is obviously just a throwaway line. Plus, this isn’t part of the agreement—any of this, but certainly the part where Quentin is imagining that someone like Eliot could be interested in him beyond the point of pretending; the pretending at least benefits them both.

He takes another drink and looks around the room, trying to find a more neutral topic of conversation. It’s so festive, with the tree and all the lights, and it takes another moment before Quentin realizes there’s actually Christmas music playing quietly in the room. Like classic crooning and strings Christmas music. He swallows a laugh. 

“What are we listening to?”

Eliot scoffs. “This is a classic.” Quentin raises an eyebrow. “It’s for Jane, she likes it. What?”

“She’s asleep, and, um, also a baby?”

Eliot sighs. “Fine, so I like cheesy Christmas music. There. Happy?” 

“Yeah, kind of.”

He smiles, and his fingertips run along Quentin’s shoulder for a moment. It feels like too firm a touch to be unintentional, but Eliot makes no acknowledgement of it either, immersed in his drink and the music, so Quentin can’t be sure. 

They sit in silence for a moment, and Quentin lets the sound of the music wash over him; he still feels nervous, but he’s also consciously aware that this is a nice, relaxed moment—he’s been here for a little while and he hasn’t felt the stress or pressure of the past few months at all.

“So,” Eliot says, breaking the silence, “read anything good recently?”

Quentin is certain that his face lights up, which is embarrassing, but he’s in his element during Christmastime—one of his stipulations when he got hired was that he be allowed to write reviews of children’s and YA books for all of December, and his editor hates it but he loves it, it reminds him of the reasons he loves to read. He’s not sure Eliot won’t think it’s stupid, though. 

“So um, I mostly read young adult books in December, it’s why I started doing this.” He pauses and Eliot motions for him to continue. “Those books, the Fillory ones, like on the tree? They changed my life when I was younger, and I just want to find those—those magical books and tell people about them. Young people who might, um, need saving.” He says it quickly, in one breath, prepared for Eliot to scoff and make a comment about real jobs (how many times has someone given him an entire speech about how if he really wanted to help people he could be doing x, y, and z?).

Eliot’s smiling, though, not like he understands, but not in a way that feels mean either. “I don’t think I ever finished that book.”

“Oh,I could lend you one of my copies!” He pauses, takes a breath, calm down. “If—if you wanted.”

“Maybe.” Eliot drinks deeply from his mug. The music has turned to something slow and sad that Quentin recognizes but doesn’t know well; he realizes his mug is almost empty. “Honestly, I don’t have much time to read for pleasure.” 

“Right.”

Eliot peers into his mug and then into Quentin’s. “Let me get us a refill, and then maybe you can tell me about the book you’re reading now?” 

Quentin can’t hide his surprise as he hands over his mug—most people barely want to hear about his job in passing, which makes sense since it’s not even a little bit impressive, but even Julia doesn’t ask for details of what he’s reading. Quentin has to admit to himself now that he was half expecting to be invited over only to sit quietly doing separate things, since they only have to look like a couple when other people see them, that Eliot wouldn’t want to interact with him except at the very start and very end of the night. Not this: not Eliot bringing him a second mug, and sitting back down next to him, with the quiet Christmas music floating through the air around them. He’s sitting closer than before, just by a little, hardly noticeable except Quentin is aware of it with every nerve in his body. Eliot’s fingers linger on Quentin’s when he hands over the mug and it almost feels intentional, except that he keeps telling himself it must not be.

“So?”

Quentin takes a breath and starts to tell him; he knows he’s talking too quickly, his thoughts moving more quickly than his mouth, and it makes him look like such a nerd. But Eliot is watching him raptly, sipping from his mug and running his fingers across the back of the couch, occasionally slipping off the fabric onto Quentin’s shoulder for split seconds. He’s also smiling in a way that’s distracting, like he’s amused and maybe a little bit confused or surprised by it. 

Quentin stutters to a pause. “What?” 

Eliot shakes his head. “It’s amazing. That you care this much about anything.”

“Don’t you care about things?”

Eliot shrugs, and he looks tired, just at the corners of his eyes, and Quentin gets that same feeling as before, that maybe they’re standing on more similar ground than he’d suspected.

“Not even about magic?” Quentin asks, partly because he always felt that way about magic—still feels that way—only he knows he shouldn’t show it. Quentin obscures himself, keeps himself safe within barriers, and he’s starting to think Eliot might be doing that too, only Eliot’s barriers are distractingly ornate and beautiful whereas Quentin’s are dull and grey.

Eliot considers the question. “I  _ like _ magic; it’s useful, and interesting, and I’m good at it. But I don’t believe in it the way you believe in that book. And before you start spouting cliches about needing other people, I don’t really like those either.” 

“Except you care about Margo.” It’s a little bit forward, but also incredibly obvious. This whole babysitting facade makes it clear that the fake relationship isn’t just for Eliot’s mom—Quentin thinks it’s also at least a little bit because he wants Margo to think he’s happy. 

“Yeah, well, she’s the one exception.” 

Quentin almost replies with “what about me?” because it’s the obvious next question, and because this  _ feels _ like a date, or maybe he just really wishes it was, and because forcing Eliot to admit he at least likes Quentin enough to spend extra time with him isn’t against the rules, and god, he just wants to know. But Quentin is not nearly that brave, or maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with the actual answer. Silence stretches over them again. 

“We could watch something?” Eliot suggests, gesturing to the dark (giant) tv against the wall. It’s such a weirdly pedestrian suggestion, such a normal thing to sit at home and do, that Quentin almost laughs. 

“Sure.”

Eliot picks up a remote to turn the music down, then another one that turns on an old movie channel, which isn’t quite what Quentin is expecting, but also seems to fit. He scoots over on the couch, swiveling so that he’s facing the tv instead of looking at Quentin, but it means they’re closer together, their sides almost touching, and Quentin feels like he’s on fire. Eliot slings his arm around the back of the couch again. It’s resting on the couch, but Eliot has his shirt sleeve rolled up now and Quentin can feel his warmth against the back of his neck; it would only take one small movement for Eliot to drape his arm around him, skin contact with no one watching. 

“Is this okay?” Eliot asks.

Quentin hesitates. He doesn’t know what’s happening, doesn’t know how to feel about it, all he knows is that he likes being here, with Eliot, that he was excited to come over, and that he wants to be touched, whatever it means. He nods. 

Eliot nods back. “Good.” He relaxes visibly, and after a moment Eliot’s arm does sink down around Quentin’s shoulders and he lets it, his thoughts lingering on the gentle weight of it, the heat of contact, the coils of nervous energy swimming in his stomach. 

Quentin feels determined not to relax, not to wear his hope on his sleeve, where it’s easy to see and shoot down. He sits stiffly, uncomfortably; but after a while the alcohol and the warmth of the apartment and of Eliot pressed lightly against him and his own desires betray him, and he lets himself relax against Eliot. 

It feels good, letting himself relax, even a tiny bit, letting himself feel skin against his own and not stifle the rush of pleasure at it. It’s been...a while, since Alice, since he’s let himself feel anything for another person, let himself lean into the emotions springing up in his mind. Not that he’s been a monk, or anything, but his sexual endeavors over the past year had been just that—sex as a distraction, as a need devoid of feeling except momentary pleasure, followed by some variety of self-pity or existential dread. He glances at Eliot, sitting with that smile playing on his lips, his fingers pressing into Quentin’s shoulder. God, he is so, so fucked. 

The movie plays through and ends, and the next one starts up. Quentin doesn’t really know movies, but this one feels familiar, gorgeous people in black and white, orchestral music behind them. Eliot seems to know it better, laughing quietly at things just before they happen. Halfway through, Quentin finds himself watching Eliot instead of the screen, catching passing emotions pushing through his expression; he could sit there for hours, he thinks, watching Eliot enjoy something, watching him get lost in it. 

Eliot turns to look at him, and Quentin stops breathing for a moment. It’s the lighting, or the warmth, or the tree, or the soft strings swelling from the tv speakers; all of these combine into something romantic and Quentin isn’t sure what he’s going to do until he does it, pressing sideways and catching Eliot’s mouth with his own. It’s different than the other times, because there’s no audience, there’s nothing screaming in the background of Quentin’s mind except his own better judgement, dulled by the atmosphere. He lets himself sink into the kiss for a moment, lets himself imagine what it would be like if they were really dating, really happy, if he was really allowed to kiss Eliot and actually mean it. 

It’s good, it’s more than good, and Quentin’s more disappointed than he expects when Eliot breaks away. Eliot stares at him, not quite uncertain, but like he’s thinking about something and making a decision. Quentin has a sudden pang of regret about those stupid socks he was wearing the last time Eliot saw him, like one un-sexy clothing decision would make or break this moment. 

The movie on tv fades to black, the music changing to something bouncier and less romantic for the end credits. Eliot’s mouth curves into a smile again, like the one from earlier, not the cocky self-impressed one that Quentin’s seen more often on their “dates.” His arm, still around Quentin’s shoulder, tightens its hold, pulling Quentin in closer, so he’s almost in Eliot’s lap. There’s a beat—a moment of _ oh no I should leave this is some big misunderstanding _ —and then Eliot is reeling him in, kissing him again like he means it, more forceful than Quentin’s spur of the moment kiss, lust floating just below the surface of it. Quentin’s stomach has replaced butterflies with explosives, his panic and want and need and dread and disbelief all bursting together into fireworks inside him. They shouldn’t be doing this—because of the agreement and because this is bad babysitting etiquette and because Quentin doesn’t know why it’s happening—but hell if he’s going to pull away first, not when they’re so satisfyingly entwined like this. 

Which is how they are when Margo, Fen, and Eliot’s mother walk in the door. 

Actually, they spring apart a little bit when they hear the door open, which is ridiculous since this is more in character than anything else. Eliot seems to realize that, because he keeps his grip on Quentin even though they’ve stopped kissing, even though it suddenly feels strange to be so close with so many questions swirling around them. Quentin tries to catch his breath, happy at least that Eliot seems both as caught off guard and as completely wrecked by that as he feels. What the hell even was that? 

“Hello-o, lovebirds,” Fen coos, falling into the apartment with a graceful stumble. Margo catches her, shaking her head in that way that Quentin recognizes as “I love her but damn, is she drunk and ridiculous.” Margo is wearing a shimmering light blue dress that looks like someone found a way to make ice stay frozen on her body, and Fen is dressed similarly but in green, like shimmering grass. They look like they had a fun time at the party, even Eliot’s mother is smiling like she’s forgotten she wants to set her face a certain way when she sees them. Quentin is surprised that she’s not more scandalized by them partially entwined on the couch, but it’s a good surprise. 

“How was the party?” Eliot asks, untangling himself from Quentin the rest of the way and standing up to say hello. Like a normal, polite person would. Quentin feels incredibly rude, suddenly, for how much he wants Eliot to stay; but as it stands, it might be more polite for him to stay seated for a moment.

“Excellent,” Margo replies. “How was babysitting?” She raises an eyebrow and Quentin is glad for the quiet baby sounds coming through the monitor, since they absolutely haven’t been paying attention to it for at least the last half hour or so. 

“Fine,” Eliot says at the same time as Quentin stumbles to his feet and says, “yeah, good.”

Margo grins, and Eliot’s mother stifles a laugh; they all seem to be both aware of and enjoying the sudden-onset awkwardness settling across the room. 

“Good,” Fen sighs, and settles her head on Margo’s shoulder, like they’re slow-dancing. Margo looks half annoyed and half charmed. Quentin likes them, he likes Eliot’s family, more than he expected to, more than he  _ should _ since after next week he’ll never see them again. 

“Oh, Eliot, is that that lovely warm drink Margo made for us yesterday?” Eliot’s mother seems to have suddenly seen their mugs on the table, and Eliot visibly bristles at the question, shooting Margo a look of betrayal that she doesn’t notice as she’s trying to keep Fen upright long enough to get them to a chair. 

“I didn’t realize Margo had shared that with you.” 

“Yes, it’s great,” his mother replies, unaware of or ignoring his irritation. “Is there any left?” 

“Yes,” Eliot says through gritted teeth. One of the cups on the table starts wobbling on its own and Quentin quickly grabs it up before anyone else can notice. 

“Maybe you can help me get some more cups filled?” she asks, and Quentin only realizes after a moment that it was directed at him. Probably since he is, after all, holding a cup. 

“Um.” Don’t be rude, don’t be too familiar, don’t overstep, there’s too many rules and his mind is still stuck in five minutes ago.

“Actually we should get going,” Eliot cuts in. Relief sweeps over Quentin. 

“Not possible.” Margo finally maneuvers Fen into the chair and looks over at them, her hair and dress and makeup still perfect despite the obvious effort of moving her. Quentin accidentally tips the cup, which wasn’t completely empty, and ends up splattering himself with cooled liquor. Fantastic. 

“What do you mean?”

Margo nods towards a window. “There’s a massive snowstorm…did you guys really not notice the fucking snowpocolypse happening outside?” She looks between Quentin and Eliot, who are both staring at her dumbly. 

Eliot moves over to a window and Quentin follows and—holy shit, that’s a lot of snow. It’s covering everything, blanketing the street and cars and buildings in white, the snow still pouring down from the sky, building up and creating an entirely new landscape, shining in the light from the buildings and street lamps. Now that he’s at the window, he can hear the wind howling between structures. How could they not notice? And how the fuck is he supposed to get home?

“The trains aren’t running between here and the city,” Margo continues, as if reading his thoughts, “and there’s no chance you’ll get a cab in that.”

“There are other ways to get back,” Eliot says, giving her a meaningful look. Quentin was just planning on taking the train, but he’s got a fair idea of what Eliot’s implying; even magic, though, isn’t going to be entirely reliable in these conditions, so traveling that way would be even more risky. 

Margo shakes her head. “Not reliably.” Eliot looks like he’s ready to start fighting, and Quentin suddenly feels sleepy and anxious. “Look, it’s fine. We have an extra room, and you’re coming back up tomorrow morning anyway. Just stay here.”

Extra room. Singular. 

“Margo.”

“Eliot.” It’s like watching a silent argument—stereotypical sibling stuff. As an only child, Quentin is fascinated and somewhat jealous; if he’d had Margo as a sister, he’s pretty sure his life would have been much cooler. “Seriously, you’re not going to get back until tomorrow.”

Eliot sighs dramatically. “Fine.” 

Quentin isn’t expecting Eliot to concede, and the very real panic of staying the night starts circling around his brain. They’re going to be sleeping here. At Margo’s. In the extra room. For the entire night. Fuck.

“You’ll stay up with us then?” Eliot’s mother pokes her head in from the kitchen. 

Quentin considers the question. Drinking more would definitely lessen his anxiety, but with this new development, he’s not sure that’s the best idea. Better to keep up his inhibitions at least a little bit. And he can already feel Eliot getting annoyed by the idea of extending the scheduled family time. They could just go to sleep, or hide out in the bedroom at least, and it would be almost the same as being back at their own separate apartments. Except that it wouldn’t. 

“I’m pretty tired,” Quentin says, and his body provides him with a well-timed yawn as punctuation. 

“Then, sadly, mother, I guess the answer is no.” Eliot’s voice drips with sarcasm, but his mother seems to take it at face value, frowning exaggeratedly at him before disappearing again into the kitchen. 

“I’ll show you to the room,” Margo says, giving Fen’s hand a squeeze before moving away towards the hallway. “I should probably check on Jane anyway.”

Quentin and Eliot follow, saying perfunctory “good night”s to Fen and Eliot’s mother. It feels strange, following her along the dark hallway with his anticipation building, like they’re heading to some dark, dramatic endpoint. 

It turns out to be just a normal bedroom, with a queen sized bed and dark blue sheets and a white comforter. The room itself is small, probably because it’s the second guest room, so there’s no other furniture, just a closet and a bed and a window looking out on the white expanse of the street. 

“Best room in the house?” Eliot quips, even though Quentin’s sure Eliot has seen this room before. 

“Fuck off, it’s not bad.” Margo lowers her voice. “I know you think you could just jump in a portal down there, but I strongly doubt you know the circumstances associated with extreme snowfall.” Eliot frowns, then finally nods. “So stop being a baby and spend one night here. Just, you know, put a dampening spell on the room, and we’ll be good.”

Eliot laughs, but Quentin can feel his face heating up, embarrassment flooding his cheeks all the way to his ears. 

“Happy almost Christmas, boys.”

They mumble another ‘good night’ and Margo leaves, closing the door behind her and giving Eliot a very obvious and unsubtle thumbs-up. This is. Basically Quentin’s nightmare scenario, or it would be if it was just about the discomfort of sharing a room and the embarrassment of the obvious sex jokes and the confusion about where their boundaries currently lie. This, though, has the added terrible fact that part of him feels absolutely giddy about the idea of spending the night in the same room as Eliot, and the combination of everything is enough to make him feel sick. 

“Don’t worry,” Eliot says, his voice subdued for some unknown reason. He opens the closet and reveals a second blanket and extra pillows. “I can sleep on the floor, or the couch when they all go to bed later.”

“Um.” He doesn’t want Eliot to sleep on the floor, but the alternative is enough to make him consider braving the snow. “Um, sure, yeah, okay, thanks.” It comes out strung together into one compound word of nonsensical, rambling assent. This is going great so far. 

Quentin sits down on the bed, because there’s nowhere else to sit, and watches as Eliot drops some pillows and blankets on the floor to create a makeshift bed. He has to admire how even doing something this dull and ordinary, Eliot still looks glamorous and impressive. And watching him continually bend over to make the bed isn’t the worst thing Quentin’s ever had to do, although his thoughts are spinning enough that it’s hard to keep himself focused on anything. 

Eliot finishes with the bed and looks unhappily out the window. “Fucking snow.”

Quentin shrugs. “It’s, um, kind of pretty.” 

Eliot gives him a withering look. “I have a very expensive king bed at home sitting empty while I sleep on the floor, so fuck the snow.” He pauses. “Also, I just don’t love winter in general.”

“Why?”

Eliot sits down on the bed, leaning his head against the wall. Quentin curls his legs up under him, so they’re again in this position of sitting close but far. 

“Did I ever tell you I’m from Indiana?” Quentin shakes his head. “Well, I am. And yes, it’s as terrible as you’ve heard. And the last time I saw it was during a snowy December, it just kind of ruined the time of year for me.” He seems like he’s going to say more, so Quentin waits, worrying the comforter between his fingers. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but my dad was a real asshole, he hated me, not that I made it hard, as a queer kid in rural Indiana. And when it snows a lot on the farm, everyone stays inside together, contained, easily accessible.” His voice is a mix of bitterness and sadness, like he’s mourning his past. Quentin feels like he shouldn’t be there. “The day he got bored and tried to go after Margo, we left. It was snowing, right before Christmas.” 

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Quentin feels awkward and underprepared; this is somehow even more intimate than the accidental kissing and it feels like Eliot is digging deeper under his skin with every word. Which isn’t good, since they’re breaking up in a week.

Eliot smiles flatly. “Everyone has their thing.”

“Is that why. Um, why you don’t get along with your mom?”

“She wasn’t like him, if that’s what you mean.” He sighs. “She just—she was there and she never did anything, never said anything. And I know she agreed with some of his...opinions. But she was supposed to protect us, and she didn’t and I can’t. I can’t forgive her for that.” He pulls out a flask that Quentin didn’t even know existed and takes a drink. “That’s also why I don’t like to babysit—as long as I can control the variables, I won’t turn into my parents, repeat their mistakes.”

He looks sad and Quentin understands, sort of; he has the same type of fears, that he won’t be good enough, that he won’t be strong enough to avoid becoming a complete mess. At the same time, he can’t even begin to imagine what Eliot went through, how much strength it must have taken. 

“For the record, I think you’d make a good father.” The words slip out before he’s aware he’s going to say them, but he doesn’t regret it. Until Eliot cocks his head to the side, smiling very slightly. 

“You barely know me.”

Quentin shrugs, and pulls Eliot’s flask out of his hands, taking his own drink. It tastes like metal and fire and bad decisions. “I know enough. Plus, I, you know, happen to know a good dad and—“ Quentin’s voice breaks and he lets the sentence fall away. This is maybe not the best topic after all, he’s just thinking about his own father now, how he’s not getting better, how he’s spending Christmas Eve alone, even though he’s the one who keeps telling Quentin to go live his life instead of hovering by his bedside. 

Eliot reaches out his hand, and Quentin expects him to take back the flask, but instead he just rests his hand on top of Quentin’s; it’s warm, and heavy, and reassuring, and Quentin blinks back a tear. He doesn’t cry about this, about his dad, because that would make it real. But sitting here—with Eliot and more alcohol swimming in his veins than he’s used to, in a strange apartment, with snow covering everything outside—here, he really wants to give in and cry. 

Instead he clears his throat, and slips his hand away self-consciously. Eliot leaves his own hand in place for a moment, then pulls away his flask, lifting it swiftly to his lips. Quentin watches him drink, then pivots the conversation. 

“So if you hate your mom anyway, why are we pretending instead of you just finding a random date?”

“I want her to see me happy. I haven’t seen her in years and I want her to know I’ve moved on, and I’m making my own happiness. And...” He hesitates. “And it’s easier to pretend, instead of trying and getting bored and disappointed.” Quentin swallows. “What about you?”

“I uh. I was engaged, this time two years ago.” Quentin draws intricate patterns with his fingers on the quilt, trying to focus his discomfort and embarrassment into the fabric instead of showing them to Eliot, which probably isn’t working. “We kind of imploded right before New Year’s, and my parents never really got over it, the engagement falling apart. They’ve just been waiting for me to get serious about someone again and I’m just...”  _ Just afraid. _ He glances up, meets Eliot’s eyes for a split second, intense and searching, then glances away towards the window. 

“Well, so much for the most wonderful time of the year.” 

Sounds filter in under the door, people walking and talking softly, doors opening and clicking closed. No one turned the music off in the living room, and Quentin thinks he can maybe hear that under the other noises, too, soft old crooning for an empty room.

“This year hasn’t been too bad.” Quentin says it without thinking, and he snaps back to Eliot’s face, expecting some expression of distaste or at least disagreement, but Eliot is almost smiling. 

“No, not too bad.” 

Eliot stands up from the bed and starts unbuttoning his shirt, apparently unconcerned with Quentin’s presence. Quentin should not watch, especially since he’s aware this is just getting ready for bed, and nothing else; he shouldn’t watch, but his eyes catch on Eliot’s fingers, deftly undoing his buttons, and he can’t look away. His pulse jumps, racing beneath his skin. 

Eliot gives him a funny look as he moves on from the shirt, pulling it off to reveal a really thin and tight white undershirt, and starts to unbutton his pants. “What?” 

Quentin swallows. He definitely should not be so blatantly watching, but he’s tired and tipsy and honestly more than a little bit turned on. “You’re not going to sleep naked are you?”

Eliot scoffs, and Quentin has a feeling he thinks Quentin’s nervousness is because he would absolutely never want to see Eliot naked, as opposed to the truth, which is the exact opposite. Eliot pulls off his pants and gestures to his boxer briefs, which are apparently staying on but fuck, Quentin wishes he would have held off on the gesture, because now his eyes are firmly attached to the form of Eliot’s hipbones curving down into an obvious and incredibly distracting outline. Fuck fuck fuck. 

Eliot folds his clothes into a neat pile on the floor. “You should also consider not getting your clothes wrinkled to hell from sleeping in them.” 

Oh, right. They have to wear the same things tomorrow morning. It’s a good point, although Quentin might have appreciated the point more if he wasn't so incredibly distracted.”Oh, right, yeah.” 

Quentin stands up and shimmies quickly out of his clothing, thankful he’s wearing an actual t-shirt under his sweater and boxers that aren’t too tight. He was definitely not planning on showing anyone said loose boxers and t-shirt, but it’s better than accidentally showing too much, especially since he’d pale in comparison to Eliot. He immediately slides himself into the bed, under the covers, hiding while Eliot stretches and it’s all but obscene the way the fabric tightens against his skin. Quentin swallows. It’s fine, it’s just…snow.

Eliot flicks off the light switch and the room darkens until his eyes get used to the darkness and the white glow coming in through the window, barely impeded by the thin white curtains. Eliot picks at the gauzy nothingness of the curtains and laughs slightly, and it’s increasingly clear that nothing about this situation is going to make it easy to sleep. 

Eliot kicks the blankets on the floor a little bit, frowning as he tries to figure out the best way to arrange everything and sleep there. Guilt flows through Quentin—the bed is comfortable, and slightly more protected from the brightness of the street, and Quentin’s the one who doesn’t belong here, not really. Not that he’s about to volunteer for sleeping on the floor, but really what’s the harm in…his stomach ties in knots just thinking about it, the anticipation building. 

“Hey, you don’t have to, um, sleep there. You can…you know, we can share?” It comes out more uncertain than he was aiming for, but Eliot still smiles and immediately scoops up the pillows off the floor and tosses them onto the other side of the bed. 

Quentin turns onto his back and watches Eliot walk around the bed, pull back the covers, and slide in beside him. It’s weird, the way the bed dips with the extra weight, the increase in warmth with both of their bodies under the covers, the accidental touch of Eliot’s leg to his as Eliot tries to get comfortable without straying off his side of the bed. There’s a sliver of space between them, and Quentin absolutely wants to cross it, but he doesn’t know what he would do then—would he be brave enough to kiss Eliot again, now that they’ve talked more about serious things, would he be confident enough to press his body against Eliot’s and ask for something more? More likely, he’d move closer just to awkwardly retreat a moment later, and Eliot isn’t reaching for him, which makes it all seem much less sure than it had an hour ago when they were on the couch. Plus, what good would it do to start something with the expiration date hanging over his head? 

He looks over, though, and Eliot is on his side facing Quentin, his eyes open and looking directly at Quentin, one hand tucked under his head. It would be so easy, but nothing is easy for Quentin, so he listens to their breathing as it syncs up unconsciously, lets himself smile, matching the smile on Eliot’s face, and doesn’t leave his side of the bed. 

“Thanks, this is better,” Eliot says quietly. 

It  _ is _ better, but Quentin’s not sure that’s what Eliot means, so he stays quiet and tries to enjoy the feeling of being there in the bed with Eliot, even if it’s all pretend. 

“You better not snore,” Eliot adds, and Quentin laughs. It’s so normal, and at the same time so strange; he hasn’t felt like this, giddy and expectant, in a bed with someone else for a long time. 

Eliot grins at him and then closes his eyes, and Quentin’s still awake when Eliot’s chest starts to rise and fall in a slower rhythm.  _ Rule number 5: don’t fall for him, you idiot _ . It might be way too late for that one. Quentin sighs and closes his eyes, trying to stop thinking about Eliot, even though he can smell his cologne clearly from this distance, even though he could reach out and touch him as easily as breathing. Quentin keeps his hands by his sides and closes his eyes and eventually slips into sleep. 

— — 

Eliot can’t place himself when he wakes up; he knows he’s not in his apartment, because there’s a dull white glow to the room, and he has blackout curtains that keep his rooms dark until he’s ready for daylight. He moves his fingers, almost experimentally, and touches skin, warm and smooth and absolutely not his. Nice. 

Now that he’s aware he’s not in bed alone, he can hear another set of breaths—slow, still asleep—and can feel the tickle of air on his chest. Their legs are tangled under the covers; eyes still closed, he stretches tentatively, and he can feel the weight of it now, the other leg, heavy and alluring and comforting. The sheets are nice but stiff, like they don’t get used and washed very often. It smells like laundry detergent and the dull lingering scent of alcohol and something else, musk and soap and paper and something he couldn’t name—the kind of smell that belongs to a person and not any perfume or cologne. It’s just...Quentin. Eliot suddenly remembers exactly where he is and who’s there with him. 

He opens his eyes, just to be sure. Quentin’s lying against him, in the bed where he should be, except now the tangle of their legs, the touch of Eliot’s hand on Quentin’s back where his shirt rode up, now it means something else. They’re not supposed to do this. It lends the whole thing more of a thrill and part of Eliot wants to whisper in his ear to wake him and see how far down Quentin will let him slide his hand, but the other part just wants to watch him sleep, enjoying the quiet warmth of the moment, wants to imagine what it would be like to wake up to this all the time, wants to feel the weight of a real ring on his finger instead of an imaginary one. 

Neither part of Eliot gets its way, though, because Quentin breathes in more sharply and makes a small sound that lodges itself in the part of Eliot’s brain that has a direct line to his dick. He’s definitely not having any issues getting it up now, especially when Quentin shifts his weight more tightly against Eliot, pressing down, his legs pinning Eliot to the bed. It would be very fucking hot if he wasn’t unclear about how awake Quentin is. He is  _ not _ wearing the right underwear for hiding anything. 

Quentin makes a contented sound and as much as Eliot doesn’t want to cross any lines, he’s not really in the best place to resist any of it (physically or emotionally) so he stays very still, enjoying the press of their bodies for the moment it lasts, until Quentin opens his eyes and Eliot can see him hurtle towards panic as he takes in the situation. 

“Oh, fuck, sorry.”

His voice is jittery, but tinged still with sleep, and he doesn't move right away. Eliot doesn't move his hand right away, either, keeping it pressed against the small of Quentin's back as they lie for a moment, a held breath as they consider each other, frozen in unease or uncertainty or something else entirely. It would be so easy for Eliot to lean his head down and capture Quentin's lips in his again, so easy to move them in the direction they both clearly want to go in, and fuck the rules. 

But Eliot's sober, and it quiets his impulses, filling in the space with questions and doubts instead; and by the time he's made a decision, the moment is broken, and Quentin is pulling away, slipping out of reach and out of the bed and into his clothes from the day before. Eliot can't tell if his face is colored with regret or embarrassment or want, and it's too late to find out which. 

Eliot stretches, trying to pretend like it's all normal, and fine, and his pulse isn't racing and his dick isn't hard. He sits up and glances out the window as Quentin pulls on his pants—the snow has stopped falling, but it covers everything in a thick white blanket, cars and streets and sidewalks blending together in a rolling landscape of snow, reflecting the hazy sun back up to the sky. It's pretty, but Eliot still fucking hates it. 

"I hope we can get to my dad's today, too." Quentin's dressed, and his eyes are following Eliot's out the window. 

Eliot throws off the covers, the seasonal unhappiness overpowering any lust, and starts getting dressed himself. He pulls on his pants and then hesitates; he has extra changes of clothes in the other room, where his mother is staying—he's spent enough accidental nights at Margo's to make it worthwhile to keep clothes here—but he doesn't want to make a big deal of it, since Quentin's already dressed, and he doesn't want it to seem like he made a thing about undressing to sleep just because he wanted to get them both out of their clothing. Whether that's true or not is entirely beside the point. 

"Is—is that your Christmas look?" Quentin asks, teasing. Eliot likes that he seems more comfortable, even though he's not sure why, since nothing really happened between them. It has to be nothing, because otherwise Eliot would have to admit that kissing Quentin on the couch the night before was Something, that just kissing was meaningful enough to change their relationship. Which he's not willing to admit, even in the privacy of his own mind. Because it was nothing, really. 

"I may have an extra shirt in the other spare room," Eliot says, going for nonchalant, like he's only just remembered. "You could borrow one, too."

Quentin shrugs. "I'm already dressed."

"Right." Eliot's secretly glad, because he likes Quentin's sweater, and also because he's not sure how he would respond to seeing Quentin wearing one of his shirts. That would definitely not be nothing. 

Eliot pulls open the door; he can hear clangs and unintelligible voices from the kitchen, which means they must be the last ones up. He's not sure what time it is, but he knows that this is by far the earliest he's ever gotten to Margo's for Christmas morning, so they can't begrudge him sleeping in a little. 

They hesitate, for a moment, and Eliot wonders if he should say something, but he's not sure what, so they just stand in silence, and then both step through the doorway into the hallway and they're back on schedule, Family Event Number Three, all rules apply. Eliot imagines he can feel a shift in the air, but he's not entirely sure that isn't just in his mind, because Quentin is smiling softly even as he plays with the sleeve of his sweater, picking at a loose thread. God, he can't believe he's getting turned on by destroying clothing. Margo would be so disappointed.

Quentin walks cautiously towards the main rooms while Eliot ducks into the other bedroom and revisits whatever he stashed in the closet. Obviously, his less impressive clothing, since it's just here for backup, which isn't what he was hoping to wear today, but it will have to do. He finds one that’s dark green, plain but seasonably appropriate, and it complements his eyes. He hates how much he hopes Quentin likes it.

Eliot walks into a scene of so pure and adorable that he's caught between wanting to make a crack about having a toothache and admitting that there might be something to this family comfort thing. Margo is curled up on a loveseat, his mother in the chair next to her, and Quentin on the couch with Jane sitting happily on his lap, laughing at a ridiculous face. They all have plates with pancakes stacked high (Quentin's is on the coffee table next to two mugs), and Fen walks in carrying two more plates, one of which she deposits next to Quentin's as she tucks herself into the seat next to Margo. The tree is lit up and glittering with tiny lights, even in the daytime, and there's a sizable stack of presents sitting under it. 

Eliot remembers Christmas when he was growing up, remembers the day he realized that it was for little kids, who didn't know the difference between a present they really wanted and one that was picked up at the last minute from the gas station. By the time Eliot was in high school, Christmas meant a week off from school to do work at home, not presents, and if he was lucky he could escape into a corner of the farm and avoid his father until dinner. This is better, but he can't shake the feeling that it's all a facade that could crack at any moment, can't allow himself to admit that he might actually want this cozy, indulgent morning. 

Quentin startles slightly and starts to stand up when Eliot walks in, forgetting he has a baby on his lap, then catches himself and sits back down. Fen swoops over and grabs Jane anyway, before Quentin can send her tumbling to the ground. 

"Down boy," Margo says quietly, grinning. Apparently the shirt isn't too bad.

Quentin blushes, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Eliot settles in next to him and takes Quentin's hand; he's not sure if he does it because he's back to pretending they're engaged, or because he wants to, but either way, Quentin seems to collect himself a little bit under the pressure of Eliot's hand. Margo and his mother are watching them closely, so Eliot leans over and plants a quick kiss on Quentin's cheek on his way to grabbing his plate of pancakes. It must look natural enough, because the staring becomes less obvious. 

The pancakes are delicious, and he's incredibly thankful for the cup of coffee waiting for him on the coffee table—he can taste the Bailey’s that Margo's mixed in, too, which is especially nice. Most Christmas mornings, he's drunk by the time he gets to Margo's, but it's not as bad as he expected, being sober and also faking an engagement while spending time with his mother. 

They move on from breakfast to presents, and Jane gets about a million, but he stops himself from saying it's ridiculous, contenting himself to drink his spiked coffee and watch as the women coo over Jane's sort-of responses to material goods. 

Margo gives their mother the shared present, which turns out to be some kind of expensive shawl that she's never going to wear in Indiana, but he supposes the novelty of nice clothing is enough of a present, and she seems happy and they're all getting along so far, which is frankly a Christmas miracle. Plus, Quentin is nestled under his arm on the couch, since they're finished eating, and he doesn't want to rock the boat, just yet.

Eliot's mother presents three of them with the ugliest home-knit socks Eliot has ever seen, and she frowns at Quentin while the rest of them open them. "I'm sorry, I really didn't know about you."

Quentin smiles in a magnanimous way, which is impressive considering it's really entirely their fault and no one else's that they won't get presents. "You can have  _ my  _ ugly socks," Eliot stage-whispers to Quentin, which gets a laugh from him and a glare from everyone else. Quentin gamely slips the socks onto his feet though, and his expression suggests they're somehow not as terrible feeling as they look.

Margo gives Fen some kind of fancy knife that Eliot can't make himself care about, and Eliot an old looking bottle of gin that he knows is spelled and will definitely have to ask her about later, as he has to pretend for now that it's just fancy gin, for his mother's sake. She pulls a small wrapped rectangle from the edge of the dwindled pile and presents it to Quentin, who startles away from Eliot. 

"Uh, really? You're sure it's for me?"

"You think I don't know who I got presents for?"

Quentin wilts under Margo's question, and smiles down at the sparkly wrapping paper in his hand, which seems to change swirling patterns in the light (also a spell, although he thinks it's a little much). Eliot wonders if Quentin is marveling at the paper spell or the fact that he actually got a present from Margo. He unwraps it carefully, and Eliot watches over his shoulder--the gentle tearing of paper (lacking an adhesive, which is just sloppy when they're trying to pretend to be normal), the way Quentin's hands look as they unwrap it. Eliot has no idea what it is, and he's more than surprised when it turns out to be a simple wooden frame inlaid with strands of gold, and inside a print of the photo Margo took of them on their first family date, kissing under the mistletoe. 

Eliot hears Quentin's sharp breath, watches the way he holds the frame in his hands, like it's something important, or precious. It's ridiculous, is what it is, who has a framed picture of themselves? But it's also sort of sweet, and looking at it, looking at them kissing and pretending, makes something in Eliot's chest hurt like an old wound he had forgotten about. He blinks quickly—he's not going to fucking cry about anything, never mind something this stupid—it's a nice photo, and they really look like what they're pretending to be, which is not at all what he was expecting to see. Eliot plasters a pleased expression on his face, knowing it's veering into his customer service face, unable to stop the trajectory. 

"Wow, a real printed picture."

Margo makes a face. "Shut up, it's adorable and it deserves to be displayed."

Quentin looks up, he looks uncertain, almost lost. "Um, yeah, thank you." 

Margo beams and Quentin puts the picture down on the couch next to him, and just like that, they move on to Quentin awkwardly stumbling through an explanation that his presents for everyone are back at his apartment. Followed by an irritating argument with his mother about how to best negotiate the snow (as if living in bumblefuck, Indiana has given her any insight into navigating cities at all). But no one throws anything, including fists, so all in all, a fairly successful family holiday. Not that he cares, he’s just counting down the time until they can leave, and not in a dreading the point where Quentin will stop leaning against his side way, not at all. 

"Eliot thinks being soft makes him look weak." Eliot overhears Margo telling Quentin later, as they're gathering coats. "Or at least he usually does. You seem to be an exception." He can hear Quentin's bewildered expression across the room, his uncertainty about what to say or do or how to respond to that statement. "That's why I gave you the picture."

Eliot doesn't hear Quentin’s reply, just the tone of it, which seems to be firmly stuck on bewildered. He supposes it’s fair—neither of them really thought this would be going so well, that people would actually be convinced that two strangers are engaged. 

“I had my doubts,” Margo replies, “but I know when my brother is lying, and when he’s not.”

Eliot feels that same pang of guilt in his stomach.  _ Guess you don’t know me as well as you think _ . But even that doesn’t feel right; Margo’s been able to call him on his bullshit for their entire lives, especially when he’s got everyone else convinced—that’s part of why they’re so close—so why is she buying into this so much? Eliot thinks it might just be that she wants to see him in a committed relationship, probably more than anyone else does, including him, but it’s still a weird series of comments, and it leaves a funny taste in Eliot’s mouth. 

Stepping outside into the cold and bright mid-day after spending so much time in Margo’s warm, comfortable apartment is a shock, and both of them stand still for a moment on Margo’s front step, readjusting. Their shoes crunch in the snow, partially ice, thinner on the sidewalk from someone’s attempts to shovel the night before. Eliot still hates it, but he has to admit there’s something kind of beautiful about standing in the snow, even if the snow itself makes him shiver with bad memories in addition to the cold. 

Quentin is surveying the street, and he gives Eliot a concerned look. “This is a lot of snow.” 

Eliot frowns. “Your dad’s expecting us when?”

“An hour.”

Oh, of course, no problem. Except that the cars are completely covered in snow and the street hasn’t even been plowed yet. And he has a bad feeling about the trains, at least the ones that come all the way up here. Eliot takes a piece of spelled glass out of his coat pocket and peers through it, looking around the street. He knows there’s a portal here that can take them straight to his apartment, which is very tempting, especially when Quentin’s cheeks are flushed from the cold and his eyes are lit up like this; except that he’s already committed to going to Quentin’s dad’s place, and they agreed no trying to get out of the family events. Fucking rules. 

He’s sure there’s a portal around somewhere that goes to New Jersey, but thank god he doesn’t know about it, and he’s not sure how lucky they’ll be able to get in finding one, although he can see a familiar shimmer coming off of a frozen fountain in what passes for the “downtown” area up here. Risky though. Still, odds are the streets and train tracks in the city have already been cleared, so as long as they can get there they can work their way across the river. 

Eliot’s not usually one for adventure for adventure’s sake, but he keeps eyeing the fountain. It’s in a prominent place, up here, which means it probably leads somewhere helpful like Grand Central Station. 

“Let’s go.” He grabs Quentin’s hand (who knows who might be looking through the window at them, and never mind the way heat pools inside him just from the curl of Quentin’s fingers around his).

It actually leads to the middle of the pond in Central Park, which is both and less convenient than it could be. At least no one is around to be startled by their sudden appearance except a few late season ducks, or to see them slip their way off the ice, Eliot walking behind Quentin ostensibly in case he falls (but actually just because it’s a fairly good view). 

He doesn’t fall, which is kind of amazing and also lucky since Eliot’s dress boots have little to no actual traction. They make it off the ice and up the small hill and over the low fence meant to keep this exact thing from happening, although both of their pant legs are soaked from the snow and Eliot is strongly reconsidering his choice of boots, and it isn’t until they’re climbing out of another snowbank that Eliot remembers he knows a water resistance spell, little good it does them now. 

Eliot’s not expecting to see many people, since it’s midday on Christmas, so he’s even more surprised when they see someone Quentin knows. 

“Uh, hi,” Quentin calls out when they come down a path, holding hands for stability purposes only, and see Penny, the asshole from his work party, standing on top of a rock looking slightly miffed. Eliot’s not sure how he got there, since he could have sworn there was no one on the rock a second ago, but then again they did just appear in the middle of the lake, so he can’t really talk. “Merry Christmas.”

Penny frowns. “What the fuck are you two doing out here?”

Eliot doesn’t like this guy, and he can’t help the sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Romantic walk. You?”

“I was trying to get to my parents’ house, but the fucking snow is making things weird.” 

“Unusual circumstances,” Quentin says thoughtfully, and all of them consider each other for a moment. 

“Yeah,” Penny says slowly, “right.” He’s wearing a shirt that’s probably supposed to have something under it, since the front is cut open in a wide V, and a striped scarf that looks warm but goes with no other part of the ensemble; he’s also wearing sandals. In the snow. Eliot really doesn’t like him.

“Did you happen to notice if trains were running? Specifically ones going to New Jersey?” Eliot’s not expecting much, but they have somewhere to be, and he doesn’t want to waste minutes socializing with someone worth this little of his time. 

Penny raises his eyebrow, and they really should have just kept walking away. “I can get you to Jersey fast, if you want?”

Eliot says, “No, thanks,” at the same time he hears Quentin’s emphatic, “Yes.” Fucking hell. Penny is grinning and Eliot it firmly reminded of that dick in high school who would offer you weed at low cost and then steal from you once he knew you were high. Rural Indiana was a fun place. 

“I can just take Quentin...” There it is, that’s the game.

Quentin has pulled out his phone and is looking hopefully between it and Eliot, clearly trying to make a point about the time. Fucking. Fine. 

“You’re not taking my fiancé anywhere without me.” It’s completely correct and in character, the only problem is the weird amount of anger burning inside him. Sure, Penny is a dick, but he’s kind of an average dick, and Eliot should be way less bothered. Only he isn’t. He’s incredibly, irately bothered. 

Penny looks pointedly at Quentin. “You seriously like this guy?” 

It’s the wrong question, for their arrangement. There’s an easy yes to the things they’ve explicitly discussed—are they really dating? getting married? spending Christmas together?—and Eliot gets a knot in his throat waiting to see if Quentin gets thrown by it, even though there’s no reason to suspect he should. Fucking hell, Eliot should not be this bothered. 

“Yeah, I do,” Quentin shoots back, and it sounds remarkably genuine. 

“Whatever.” Penny shakes his head and jumps down from the rock, like an inappropriately dressed, assholish gazelle. “Okay so grab my hands, and tell me where you want to go. And you’re not allowed to ask any questions.” 

Quentin calls out the name of the town. Eliot’s glad that Quentin is also looking suspiciously at Penny’s hands. “What exactly do you...”

“Do you want a ride or not?” 

“Um, yes?” Eliot just rolls his eyes and shrugs in response.

“Okay, then. Grab my hands, and let’s go.” 

They do, hesitantly, although Eliot feels like it’s a little bit stupid to hesitate—what are his hands going to do, explode? Honestly, he’s more than expecting Penny to start laughing and reveal it was all some elaborate, pointless prank. Christ, what a waste of time.

Instead, he blinks and they’re out of the park, on a street that’s obscured by the covering of snow, but looks remarkably like suburban New Jersey. Penny drops their hands, looking smug. Quentin’s gazing around like he can’t quite believe what’s happening. 

“This is. This is my dad’s street. How…?” He trails off and Eliot picks up the sentiment.

“How the hell did you do that?”

Penny rolls his eyes. “The fuck did I say about asking questions?” He turns to Quentin, “You sure you want to be with this guy? He seems like an idiot.”

“Says the guy wearing sandals in a snowstorm.”

Penny laughs. “Don’t be jealous, pretty boy.” Eliot scowls.

“I’m sure,” Quentin says, still looking around, but smiling slightly when his eyes fall on Eliot. “Thanks for the ride, Penny.”

“Even though we  _ could _ have made it here on our own.”

“Whatever. Merry Christmas, let me know when you ditch him,” Penny adds as a last barb, and in the time it takes Eliot to think of a rebuttal, he disappears. Good riddance.

“So this is actually your dad’s street?”

Quentin nods. “House at the end. We might even be on time.” 

Right. Christmas Number Two. Eliot would like a drink, or a smoke, or some other vice, before he has to deal with more family. Unfortunately he’s not going to be so lucky. 

They start making their way up the street, trudging through patches of snow and ice. It snowed slightly less here, but the air is colder, the path deceptively slippery. They’ve made it as far as the sidewalk in front of the house when Quentin slips, falling backwards quickly and suddenly, arms flailing, so that Eliot just barely has time to reach out his arms and catch him. It’s all instinct, pushing snow out of his way so that Quentin doesn’t fall, and then he’s there, in Eliot’s arms, breathing quickly, their faces so close together, Quentin’s cheeks red from the cold and the disturbed snow floating in the air around them, and Eliot wants to kiss him and forget about Christmas. He wants to get Quentin into the warmth of his apartment and out of his wet clothes and he wants to do all the things he can’t stop imagining, because then it will be done and he can move on. Nothing like a good fuck to get over this kind of thing. 

He leans in, wanting the kiss, wanting the moment, the choice, out in the open. Quentin turns his cheek before Eliot can do anything, though, moving away to right himself, pulling himself out of Eliot’s grasp and back on his own feet. 

“We should, uh, get going inside.” He brushes non existent snow off his clothing, and Eliot is caught between wanting to reach out to him again, and wanting to disappear into the nearest snowbank, neither of which are very Eliot impulses. What's going on with him?

"Of course," he says instead, filling his voice is surety and sweetness and not any of the turmoil rolling in his stomach or his mind. They just have to get through this Christmas, and then there's only a few more days until New Year's Eve and the end of all of it. He's not sure, as they walk up to the door and Quentin knocks, his face breaking into a smile when his dad answers the door in a hideous reindeer sweater, why that thought isn't more reassuring. 


	5. Chapter 5

"I feel like I never see you anymore." Julia stretches her head over their cubicle divider, standing either on her chair or on her desk, making the most over the top sad puppy face. 

Quentin stops typing and looks up at her. "That's ridiculous, you see me almost every day."

"Yeah, but it's not the same." 

"How?"

Julia shrugs. "I just think you're a little bit distracted by your incredibly hot fiancé." Quentin feels his cheeks start getting hot, which is absolutely ridiculous, because he's not even really his boyfriend, and Julia  _ knows _ this and is just being a pain in the ass. 

"She's right, you've been distant." Penny's head appears above the cubicle wall on his other side. Penny hasn't said anything about their encounter the day before, which just makes Quentin more anxious about  _ when _ it's going to come up. It's been six hours since he got to work and the fact that Penny hasn't hit on him or given him shit about Eliot is making Quentin jumpy. 

"You saw me yesterday," Quentin protests, just to get ahead of the anxiety. Instead, it moves from his stomach up into his throat. Why did he say that?

Penny looks at Julia. "I did, it was terrible. They were all cute hand holding and disgusting couple nonsense."

Quentin lets out his breath; at least Penny believes he and Eliot are together now, which probably explains why he's barely spoken to Quentin the entire morning. 

Julia grins down at Quentin. "Oh, were they now?" She disappears and he can hear her climb off of the desk and throw herself into her chair again. 

"Traitor," Penny mutters, and disappears behind his own desk, too.

"Q." Julia's leaning around the cubicle wall now, trying to make the conversation less public. Which, honestly would have been nice from the start, but he supposes he should take what he can get when it comes to Julia and discretion. "Hand holding? Just for Penny?"

Quentin feels giddy, and also like his cheeks will probably never return to their normal color and temperature—he's going to have to strap an ice pack around his face until New Year's. His giddiness drops a little bit—New Year's is so soon, he really doesn't want to think about it. He's one hundred percent sure Eliot isn't walking around mooning and blushing and wishing he could elongate December. 

"Maybe...maybe not _ just _ for Penny." 

Julia squeals quietly, then puts on a serious face. "But, strictly business-related hand holding, right?"

Quentin rolls his eyes and is about to tell her that she can either shut the fuck up and be nice to him or he's not going to tell her anything about his private life ever again (an empty promise) when his phone buzzes with a message. A message from Eliot. They don't have any more plans until the 31st, why is Eliot texting him now? Quentin's breath comes shaky as he opens it. 

_ extra date - central park, 7pm _

Quentin swallows. Extra date. Why? Did something happen, could he not shake his family after spending the entire morning with them the day before? Had he screwed something up, and they're breaking up early? He thinks back over the day before, but he can't put his finger on any obvious gaffes, and things had gone well at his dad's house. When they'd left, Eliot had given him a look wrapped up in conflict, like he wanted to say something but didn't—maybe this is related to that look? Quentin's insides are tying themselves into knots as his thoughts tangle. It can't be good, that's for sure, because there's no way Eliot would just want an extra date for the  _ date  _ of it all…right?

_ Why?  _ he texts back, like an idiot whose mind is busy racing to all the worst conclusions, then  _ And Central Park is big. _

_because._ A second that takes hours off of Quentin's life. _lake._

Quentin stares at his phone. Because. It's not like he has a choice, not really, not like he's going to say no. Even if the rules didn't explicitly say that attending all events was required, he would still not say no. He replies  _ Okay. _ and closes his phone. Julia is smirking. 

"Anything important?"

"What? No, um, no...just...I better finish this." Quentin motions to his computer, something that would have been more effective if he'd had a document open instead of Eliot's professional website. Shit.

"Oh, absolutely," Julia replies, sliding back behind the wall. He's not sure why, suddenly, he doesn't want to tell her something when she's heard every detail up to this point, but something feels...different, somehow. Something he doesn't want to say out loud in case speaking it makes it less real. He sighs, closes his browser, and tries to focus on work for the last few hours of the day. 

Quentin doesn't know how he gets through the rest of the day, or how he leaves the office and gets on a train, or how he actually makes it to Central Park and directs his feet through the semi-shoveled pathways until he sees Eliot, standing with his back against a tree that has inexplicably shaken all the snow off this side of its trunk, looking like an absolute fantasy in his suit and jacket. Standing by himself, though—no Margo, no mother, no anyone—just Eliot, playing with something in one of his hands, looking up as Quentin approaches, his feet crunching on the snowy path. It's weird, even though it's dark and getting colder Quentin would still have expected the park to be filled with people enjoying the snow. But here, it's just them, just him and Eliot. 

"Hey." The most inadequate of greetings when someone looks as good as Eliot does leaning against the tree, like he stepped out of a romantic ‘80s movie. Quentin can almost hear the saxophone music in the background. 

"Hey." Eliot pushes off the tree and walks towards him. For a moment, Quentin thinks Eliot is going to hug him, and he's not sure if he wants to lean into it or run, but then Eliot pulls himself back, stopping short of contact. Quentin is overwhelmed with relief and disappointment.

"No, um, family?" Quentin has a brief moment of fear that they're all hiding behind trees or rocks, waiting for some opportune moment; smile for the hidden camera.

Eliot shakes his head. "No family."

“So—so I'm here because..?" It sounds ruder than he intends, but Eliot is apparently getting better at reading his tone, because he just smiles. 

"Because I asked you."

Quentin should leave, he should absolutely run, because Eliot's words are going straight to his dick, and he knows that's not where this is going and the hope is going to destroy him. He wants to push Eliot against the tree and do things to him that are absolutely against the rules in the park. He wants things he can't have, and he knows he can't have them, and it makes the wanting worse. 

"Ha. Right."

"Here." Eliot turns over the thing in his hand and hands it to Quentin. It's a little glass ball, about the size of a golf ball, but the inside of it is filled with tiny golden flames licking at the glass. Quentin takes it gingerly, afraid it will burn him, unclear on the purpose of taking it at all, but it's only pleasantly warm, like the perfect distance from a fire to warm your hands. Quentin clutches it carefully; it looks breakable. 

"What is it?" he asks, looking up from the ball to Eliot.

Eliot looks relieved, and takes a second ball out of his pocket, rolling it in one of his hands again. "Magic," he says, waving his hand dramatically. "But also it's basically just a hand warmer, although it can warm whatever you'd like." (That has no business sounding sexy.) 

"You know they sell those, like in normal non-magic stores, right?"

Eliot scoffs. "Not that look this pretty."

Quentin has to concede that. It's lovely, the tiny flames and the way the glass reflects it, the smoothness of the glass ball in his fingers. It's not the sweaty chemical sachets they sell in stores. Something average made beautiful.

"So what are we doing here?"

"Taking a walk? Or something?" He frowns, like he's suddenly realizing there's a flaw in the whole summoning someone to a park without an actual plan business. "You like the snow, right?"

"Yeah."

The smile filters back in. "So we're taking a walk. In the snow."

"In the dark?" As he's saying it, the streetlights flare into being, dropping a cold but seasonal light onto the snow around them. The white landscape reflects it, so everything seems bright again while still feeling dark, shadows and whatever the opposite of shadows are. He does like this. "Oh." 

Eliot rolls his eyes, but he seems pleased. He indicates the path, winding in and around the trees and lake, and Quentin falls into step beside him. He still doesn’t know what’s going on, and he still can’t figure out why he’s really here, holding a warm glowing ball and walking next to Eliot. Questioning it too much would be dangerous. 

“I didn’t think I would see you again until New Year’s,” Quentin says, just to break the silence. 

“Is that what you wanted?” 

He doesn’t have to think about it. “No.”

“Okay.”

“But admit it, you just needed an excuse to avoid your mother after yesterday.” 

Eliot doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t agree either. He just sighs. “I kind of thought when I saw her again that it would be yelling and fighting and...satisfying. Not this playing happy family bullshit.” He pauses. “Margo says she’s left my father, so there’s that, but who knows.”

“Does that make it better?” Quentin asks. He’s thinking of his own parents, and how he used to think that if something would just change, it would undo the past problems, the times his mother told him he breaks things, the time he overheard them arguing about how much to tell him. How he thought eventually they’d stop the holidays and the dinners and the false pretense of family. Maybe it doesn’t work like that.

Eliot shakes his head. “No. I just,” he pauses, frustrated. “I want to yell at her once, you know? To her face, before I’m forced to grow up and move on.” 

Quentin wants to take his hand, because they’re back in the conversations that are too serious for the non-relationship they have, and too important for him to fall back on their stupid rules. He juggles the ball into one hand and reaches the other hand out towards Eliot, who takes it quickly and certain, like it’s normal, like it’s not all pretend. They both have enough pretending in their lives, and even though it scares the shit out of him, he wants it to be real for just one moment, until Eliot remembers that he can actually do much better than Quentin. Eliot entwines his fingers with Quentin’s, and Quentin feels light and heavy, like he’s flying and sinking and drowning and breathing finally. 

“Why did you stop doing magic?” Eliot asks, out of nowhere. 

Quentin takes a breath. Eliot’s hand is a reassuring pressure, and he just has to figure out how to talk about this without making it seem like too big a deal. Because it isn’t. 

“So my uh, my discipline is minor mendings. And I was never able to do the bigger things, the heroic things.” He sighs, he sounds like such an asshole. “It just got hard to have this thing I loved that I would never be great at, so I gave it up.”

Eliot frowns. “So you can fix things?” 

Quentin laughs hollowly. “Small things, yeah.”

They walk in silence for a moment, following the path onto a bridge. It’s completely deserted and Quentin wonders again where everyone is. 

“That’s fucking stupid.” 

“What?” Quentin’s heart sinks. He should have expected this: the contempt, and annoyance, and amusement he can feel coming next. He was stupid to think he could tell Eliot about such a significant piece of himself that has always felt so lacking, to think that Eliot wouldn’t look at him and find it as completely ridiculous as it clearly is.

He sneaks a look at Eliot, just to see where on the spectrum of judgment he’s fallen, and what he sees isn’t at all what he expects. It’s not the look of someone who got stuck with Quentin by chance for a few weeks in December and doesn’t actually give a crap about him. It’s a different look, uncertain and full of something that makes Quentin’s stomach swim with fear and want and questions. 

“So what, someone told you this part of you wasn’t good enough and you just believed them and gave up?” He sounds scornful, and angry, but Quentin doesn’t feel like it’s directed at him, and Eliot’s hand is still gripping his. 

“A lot of people,” Quentin mumbles. He’s trying to avoid taking himself back, replaying things in his head that don’t deserve to be there when he could be looking at  _ Eliot _ , when there’s hardly time left before he won’t be able to do that anymore. But they come, little things, little words and gestures and memories that make him ashamed and exhausted and anxious. Even when he was little, he was never good enough, never the smartest one or the most outgoing or the most athletic. Quentin’s always had his mom’s voice in his head—the one saying he breaks things—and he lets it define him sometimes, because arguing is harder, because his voice can’t always drown out the memories. 

“They’re wrong.” 

Quentin looks over at Eliot, and stops watching the ground, and he slips on a patch of ice, his feet splaying sideways, his hand letting go of Eliot’s as he spreads both hands in front of him to catch himself. He catches himself on his hands and knees before he hits the ground fully, but he forgets the little glass ball in the moment of panic and it tumbles out of his hand, hitting the cement and shattering into tiny pieces. The flames stay intact, burning happily on the ground. Quentin takes a shuddering breath and wills himself not to get upset. It’s just... 

“I break things,” he says quietly, while Eliot bends down, puts an arm around his waist, and pulls him up to standing. The skin on his palms is raw where it scraped against the cement, and it’s starting to sting. 

“No,” Eliot replies, looking pointedly at the broken glass ball. “You fix things.”

Quentin stares at him. The air feels charged, anticipating. Quentin barely does magic at all anymore, he’s not even sure he still could—but he wants to prove Eliot right. Hiding behind the walk and the conversation and despite the fact that he has no reason to even notice someone like Quentin, Eliot is standing here telling him that what he is enough; Eliot believes in him.

He reaches deep, somewhere inside of himself, tucked away, but that never really went anywhere. It’s not like riding a bike, exactly, or maybe it is; maybe it’s more like that feeling when a song comes on the radio that he hasn’t heard in years and he’s surprised to find that he still knows all the lyrics; maybe it’s like stepping back into an old bedroom, or an old classroom, and realizing that every memory there that he thought was lost and gone is still somewhere, like a building block, supporting the person that he is. It comes back like a flood, and like a drizzle, and like an explosion. The glass reaches out to him, it wants to be fixed, it wants  _ him _ to fix it, and now he doesn’t ignore it, or pretend he can’t hear. Magic is this, it’s hearing all of the pieces and knowing you can put them together; Quentin can do this, even if he can’t save his dad, or stop either of their parents from being terrible, or erase anything in the past, he can fix things. Little things. Little things that matter. 

He forgets about Eliot for a moment, and then comes back to himself, aware that everything has a slight glow to it that wasn’t there before. Sure, it’s probably in his head, but it’s still pretty. He picks up the ball from the ground, the flames safely tucked inside, and offers it to Eliot to inspect. 

Eliot smiles. “Huh. I think, honestly, you may have improved on my glasswork.” 

Quentin laughs lightly and shakes his head. He wonders if the pieces of things talk to Eliot, if they tell  _ him _ how much they want to be whole—he wonders if that’s something only he can hear, and the thought makes him both pleased and sad. Still, Eliot can move things with his thoughts, and that’s superior to fixing a glass ball any day. 

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” Eliot says, dropping the ball back into Quentin’s palm and grabbing his free hand. “Come on.”

They cross the bridge and continue through the park, winding along a densely tree-lined pathway, well-worn dirt beneath the layer of snow instead of concrete. It feels weird, abandoned and romantic; like something out of a book, something that shouldn’t exist for them here in the middle of the city. Quentin wonders again how Eliot got rid of all the people, or if he’s being self-centered, and it’s just chance—he doesn’t think Eliot leaves much to chance, though. 

They walk hand in hand for minutes, hours, seconds, he can’t be sure. With no one around, the passage of time seems inconsequential, uncountable. They pause by an archway, narrow and old, that looks like it should be attached to a wall, but if it ever was it isn’t now. 

“Watch this,” Eliot says conspiratorially. 

The branches above them begin to shake, like there’s suddenly huge gusts of wind blowing through them, and some of the collected snow shakes loose, falling onto them slower than it ought to, a mimicked snowfall. It’s uneven, and imperfect, and lovely. Quentin feels like he’s inside of a snow globe. 

Quentin can feel the snowflakes, the broken ones, crushed underfoot or broken from impact with the tree branches. Tiny breaks, or fractures even, but they want to be fixed. And he can do that. He focuses, mending each snowflake, until they’re surrounded by piles of whole snowflakes, too small to be apparent, but the energy of it is buzzing around them. Eliot gives Quentin a look he can’t quite read and then surges forward, pressing a kiss to his mouth that’s somehow different from all of the others; it’s warm and semi-familiar now, but it’s not an act and it’s not drunken and it’s not confused, it’s just desire and affection. The kiss wipes all of the thoughts from Quentin’s mind; he closes his eyes and leans into it and he can’t remember anything except for Eliot and Eliot kissing him and the emotional energy that’s pulsing through him. 

Eliot pulls away and laughs, and Quentin stands there frozen for a moment before he opens his eyes and looks around them. The snowflakes, all of the perfect complete ones that he’d been focused on before Eliot kissed him, are hanging thick in the air around them, creating a blanket from ground to treetops that’s centered on the two of them; single snowflakes standing still, glittering in the air. 

Eliot puts out a finger and catches a snowflake, watches it melt on his fingertip. “Are you doing this?” 

Quentin supposes he is, not entirely intentionally but sometimes that happens, surges of emotion causing unintentional magic. Quentin can’t remember the last time it did happen though, maybe not since his early days at school. “I think so.”

Eliot nods, looking pleased, and then he’s pushing Quentin backwards, pushing him up against the stones of the arch, his hands light but insistent on Quentin’s waist, on his neck. Eliot pauses, giving him an out, but Quentin doesn’t want it, doesn’t care about the rules anymore. Slipping the glass ball into his pocket, he wraps his fingers in the lapels of Eliot’s coat and pulls him closer, pressing their bodies together and pulling Eliot’s mouth down to his. They kiss like a fire igniting, passion and want and need and hours and hours of pretending and not pretending and trying to ignore this thing that flows out of them now. 

Quentin knows when the snow hanging in the air starts falling, and he doesn’t care, he doesn’t even break away to look. He doesn’t care about the icy bricks pressing into his back or the wind biting at his exposed fingers. He only cares about Eliot, Eliot kissing him, Eliot pushing against him like he can’t control himself, the tiny noises of pleasure escaping Eliot’s lips and the impossibility of it all. Quentin wants to scream, he wants to run, he wants to never move and stay here forever. He wants Eliot to stay with him here, in this moment, before they remember that this is just an arrangement, before Eliot remembers that he’s far too good for someone like Quentin. He pushes the thoughts from his mind, digs his fingers in more tightly to Eliot’s lapel. 

They stand there and kiss fiercely, a point of heat in the cold snow. Eliot’s tongue in his mouth and Eliot’s hands running across his hips, dancing under his coat, and what is unmistakably the hard press of Eliot’s cock through the fabric of both of their pants. Quentin shivers, but he doesn’t want Eliot to stop, and the cold only intensifies when Eliot does, when he pulls back slightly, concerned. 

“Just. Cold. But. Good,” Quentin manages. His fingers are maybe actually going to freeze off but he doesn’t care. Except, then it’ll be harder to touch Eliot. He pries his fingers off Eliot’s lapel and slips his hands into Eliot’s pockets. Eliot laughs, low and quiet. 

“We could,” he says, running his fingers gently under Quentin’s waistband, his tucked-in shirt is still between their skin; whatever Eliot’s suggesting, Quentin’s going to say yes, “go back to my place.” 

“Yes.”  _ Yes, yes, fucking yes _ . He can barely choke out the word, too distracted by Eliot’s smile, his fingers tangling in a fist in Quentin’s shirt, pulling him off the stone wall and into a quicker kiss, gripping Quentin’s hand as they practically run back down the paths, as if they were much younger, like there’s no time to be wasted. Quentin laughs, and Eliot joins in—they’re laughing at nothing, it’s just so perfect, going from pretending to...to  _ this _ .

How they make it back to Eliot’s apartment, Quentin can’t remember. One moment they’re in the park and the next moment Eliot’s straddling him in the back of a cab, and then they’re in the doorway, the quiet dark apartment stretching out before them like a challenge, like if they step inside then that’s it, they can’t take this back. 

Quentin hesitates, but Eliot pulls him inside, no hesitation, and Quentin gladly lets himself get pulled, telling the part of his brain that’s still wondering what all of this will  _ mean _ to just shut the fuck up for now. 

“Hold on,” Eliot says once the door is closed, and Quentin’s heart sinks. This is where the blow comes, where Eliot says he’s not sure and they should take some time before jumping into it. 

Except he doesn’t say anything. He does a tut and about a hundred candles scattered throughout the apartment start to glow. It’s honestly a comical number of candles, and Quentin desperately wants to give him shit for apparently decorating his apartment specifically for seduction (or he’s the Phantom of the opera), but it  _ is  _ a pretty effect—it’s romantic and warm and Quentin’s snark gets buried beneath the other, stronger feelings. 

Eliot throws off his coat and Quentin follows suit. He’s still a little shaky, even though it’s warm in here—and he’s nervous, fucking nervous, and he wonders if he’s making a mistake, trying to pretend like their interest in each other could possibly be on an even plane. 

“Are you okay?” Eliot asks, concerned, putting his hands on Quentin’s shoulders. 

God, he is so very okay. 

Quentin nods. Nothing, not even his own anxious brain, is going to stop him from enjoying this. 

Eliot nods back, smiling, and pulls Quentin in, his hands running a trail from Quentin’s jawline to his hips, his mouth finding Quentin’s with a magnetic urgency. Quentin’s chest is fluttering with anticipation, his skin humming everywhere Eliot’s touched, burning with want. Their kisses are passionate and deep; Quentin’s used to kissing with the thought of the next thing, as a step on the way to everything else. With Eliot, Quentin thinks he could just stand here all night, kissing for hours, and it would be enough—more than enough. 

Except that Eliot starts moving them towards the living room, crowding Quentin up against the wall, his hands pressed against Quentin’s hips, strong and firm; and yes, this is better. Eliot kisses him, nipping at his lip and then down his neck, pushing aside the collar of Quentin’s shirt, his tongue hot on Quentin’s skin. 

Eliot lets one of his hands travel upwards to start unbuttoning Quentin’s shirt, and Quentin’s breath hitches in his throat. Eliot sucks a bruise roughly against Quentin’s collarbone and somehow this feels terrifyingly intimate to Quentin, more than any of his other hookups recently, maybe ever. It’s not just that Eliot is going to see him, bare against the wall, it’s that Eliot knows things about Quentin that almost no one else does. He’s let Eliot see things he usually holds tightly, and the vulnerability of that makes everything they’re heading towards feel that much more intense. Eliot pops the last shirt button and makes an approving sound and Quentin knows without thinking about it any more that this—letting Eliot know him, feeling Eliot’s skin against his—is worth the fear of it. 

Quentin’s shirt falls open and Eliot repositions, leaning back and looking at Quentin like he’s something impressive to behold, hips against hips keeping him pinned against the wall. The pause is almost too much, there’s too much attention focused on him, and Quentin tentatively rolls his hips against Eliot to redirect it, reaching out to start undoing Eliot’s shirt. Eliot breathes in sharply and rushes forward, trapping Quentin’s hands between them, caught on the first button, and then he’s kissing him again and Quentin can’t help the breathy, needy noises that fall from his lips. 

Hands seek out Quentin’s waistband, and fingers run along it, teasing until Quentin frees a hand enough to pull Eliot in even closer. Eliot makes a noise in his throat, but still undoes the button and zipper incredibly slowly, like a challenge to how intensely Quentin’s lust has overtaken him. Watching Quentin fall apart, Eliot grins, and then Quentin is standing with his pants around his ankles, his shirt falling off his shoulders and Eliot’s fingers playing lightly against his stomach.

There’s something both erotic and frustrating about the fact that he’s almost unclothed and Eliot isn’t. Quentin is certain that Eliot knows it, that every move is deliberate, and that combined with the weight of Eliot’s body against him and the light touch of his fingers has made Quentin incredibly hard, his cock straining against his boxers. Eliot rocks his hips against Quentin, and he can feel how hard Eliot is, too. Quentin is filled with an immediate and unarguable desire to get Eliot’s clothing off as soon as is humanly possible, and fuck whatever his plan is. 

His fingers fumble against Eliot’s buttons again and Eliot breaks their kiss, laughing huskily. “Let me help you.” The buttons start to pop open of their own accord, revealing his chest and stomach, ending with the buttons on his pants, a striptease while his hands are still on Quentin, drawing patterns that curl down onto his boxers, and  _ fuck _ , that’s a useful skill. 

Eliot lets his clothing drop to the ground, and Quentin swallows, then quickly steps out of his own pants, kicking them aside, while Eliot pushes Quentin’s shirt onto the growing pile of clothing. Eliot presses their bodies, their lips together again and Quentin gets lost in the warmth of him, the intentional skin on skin contact. He closes his eyes, leaning into the sensations of touching, of heat and skin and the soft fabric of Eliot’s boxer-briefs and the cold of the wall behind him and the electric weight of Eliot’s cock against his own through barely anything. Quentin shivers.

“We could move to the bedroom,” Eliot says, his words tickling Quentin’s lips. “It’s warmer in there.”

“Yes…bedroom. Good.” Quentin’s babbling like an idiot, but Eliot grins as he moves away, weaving a path through the living room towards the bedroom. 

Quentin pushes off the wall to follow, and nearly trips when he sees Eliot pull down his boxer-briefs as he walks, letting them drop languidly on the floor. Quentin takes a moment to appreciate the curves of Eliot’s ass, the perfect way his body moves, enticing and beautiful. Eliot doesn’t turn around, but he’s walking like he knows Quentin is watching (and how could he not be), and Quentin hurries to remove his own boxers before following Eliot into the bedroom. 

The room is big, and mostly empty except for a king sized bed, a dresser and two bedside tables. There are even more candles in here, on the tables and the floor, their light throwing flickering shadows against the walls. Eliot finally turns around once they’re both in the room, leaning against the bed so he’s almost sitting.

“Come here,” he says, beckoning Quentin over.

Quentin inhales and forgets what comes next for a moment, his eyes catching on Eliot’s body in the dim light, drawing across his chest and his waist and his legs and falling finally on his cock, heavy between his legs. Quentin knew that Eliot was big, but he couldn’t have imagined the magnificence of Eliot’s cock, the way it hangs, the shape of it, the way his mind immediately starts thinking of all the things he wants Eliot to do with it to him. 

He moves quickly from the doorway to the bed, slotting himself in between Eliot’s legs and kissing him deeply. Their cocks press together, every little movement a wave of pleasure, so much and not nearly enough. 

Quentin wants to kiss every inch of Eliot’s skin while he has the opportunity. He wants to touch every spot on his body, the ones that makes Eliot arch up against him, the ones that make him moan softly, the ones that make him tighten his grip against Quentin’s skin. He moves his lips down Eliot’s neck, across his collarbone, stopping at each nipple to lick and suck lightly, living for the little sounds Eliot makes, the way his chest heaves, the breathless way he says Quentin’s name. Quentin kisses lines across Eliot’s stomach and his thighs, moving his own body lower until he’s on his knees on the cold, hard wood of the floor, eye level with Eliot’s cock. 

He pauses, listening to Eliot’s breathing, building up the anticipation, his fingertips running across Eliot’s thighs, pressing kisses to his skin, until it’s too much for Quentin to want to wait any longer, and he slowly but determinedly takes the tip of Eliot’s cock into his mouth. Quentin’s imagined this, it’s useless to pretend he hasn’t, but this is real—the weight of Eliot’s cock in his mouth, the cold of the floor against his knees, the warmth of Eliot’s skin against his, it’s all real and incredible. Pressing Eliot’s thighs firmly against the bed, Quentin runs his tongue along the underside of Eliot’s cock, tasting the salty precum and letting his tongue find the places that make Eliot tremble. 

Quentin takes his time, gradually taking more and more of Eliot’s cock into his mouth. He revels in the feeling of Eliot’s cock pressing against his throat and heavy on his tongue, of Eliot’s thighs tensing beneath his hands, of Eliot’s hands as they grip the sheets and then weave into Quentin’s hair, holding tight.

“Oh, fuck, Quentin.” Eliot sounds completely gone, and it sends a jolt straight to Quentin’s cock, the idea that he’s provoking that tone in Eliot’s voice. 

Quentin loosens his grip on Eliot’s thighs and increases his pace, encouraging Eliot to fuck into his mouth, to stop holding back, and Eliot’s fist in his hair tightens. It’s so fucking good, and it’s so surreal. Quentin moans around Eliot’s cock and Eliot’s hips stutter forward, finally losing his control and Quentin is almost choking but it’s perfect and when Eliot pulls out, Quentin hears the high, whiny sound he makes like it’s coming from someone else. 

Eliot pulls him up off of his knees and kisses him again, his hands grasping Quentin’s ass. Quentin’s cock is leaking against his leg. “I want to fuck you,” Eliot says, an implicit question.

Quentin forgets how to talk for a moment, then nods. “Y-yes.” 

He thinks briefly, fleetingly, of the rules, of the fact that Eliot is in a completely different league than he is, of all the reasons he should be cautious and protect himself. But then Eliot is climbing onto the bed and pulling Quentin with him, is leaning over to the bedside table to get a bottle of lube, is looking at Quentin with eyes so dark and wide and genuine that Quentin forgets all of the reasons why this shouldn’t happen, and can only remember the ones why it should. 

Eliot kisses Quentin and gently but firmly nudges him onto his hands and knees. Eliot kneels behind him and runs his hands down Quentin’s spine, across the backs of his thighs, over his ass, his fingers pressing against his opening. 

“You’re beautiful like this,” Eliot murmurs. 

Quentin laughs uncomfortably. “You’re beautiful all the time.”

Eliot laughs a little, too, and then there’s a pause, and Quentin wishes he knew how to read it. Quentin wants to see what Eliot’s doing, but he can’t; he can only hear the pop of the lid of the lube bottle, the heavy pace of Eliot’s breath, feel the brief absence of Eliot’s hands on him. Anticipation builds inside him, coiling low in his stomach, exploding into sparks when one of Eliot’s fingers slides wet and warm against his skin and slips inside him. Quentin whimpers and tries to keep himself from pushing his hips backward. Fuck, he wishes he could see Eliot’s face.

The achingly slow movement of Eliot’s finger lights up every nerve in Quentin’s body, drawing tiny moans and whines out of him. Eliot presses kisses to Quentin’s ass and spine, soft and then more passionate as he adds a second finger and gradually a third, pressing into Quentin and curling across the spot inside of him that turns him into a shaking, shivering mess. There’s no way to keep himself still anymore, and he fucks himself back on Eliot’s fingers, resisting the urge to touch himself, his cock hanging heavy and leaking against the bed. 

“Fuck, just…more, Eliot.” Quentin’s voice sounds far away, but Eliot’s response is immediate, a sharp breath and a groan and his fingers curling and then disappearing, leaving Quentin empty. 

Quentin pushes his hips backward, looking for the contact again, chasing the feeling of Eliot’s skin against his, inside him, touching parts of Quentin that glow and spark, that haven’t been touched in a long time. Eliot laughs, and Quentin hears the bottle top open again, and then Eliot is draped across his back, Eliot’s mouth lined up with his ear, his weight pressing into Quentin. 

“That I can do,” Eliot says breathily against Quentin’s ear. 

The contact breaks for a moment as he lines himself up, and then Eliot is pressing his cock against Quentin, pushing inside slowly and deliberately. Quentin braces himself against the mattress, breathing hard. It’s good, it’s so fucking good, the feeling of being filled, and the heat of Eliot’s body pressing against Quentin’s, energy sparking off of their skin. 

Eliot moves his hips shallowly for a few moments, then pushes in further, slowly. Quentin can feel it, can feel when Eliot is buried in him all the way, can feel the way Eliot’s thighs tense against his. Eliot’s fingers grip his shoulders and his breath is labored and hot on Quentin’s neck, and all Quentin can think about is how much he wants Eliot to move, to touch him, to fuck him.

Eliot moves his hips with controlled focus, each thrust rocking their bodies against the bed. He kisses the back of Quentin’s neck again, and it’s sweet and sensual all at once. Quentin feels every breath, he hears every tiny sound, every time Eliot whispers his name. 

His cock aches with the movement of their bodies, needing to be touched, and everything is too much at once. 

Quentin falls forward onto his forearms, and Eliot wraps an arm around Quentin’s chest, supporting and holding on. He increases his pace, each thrust harder and faster than the one before it. It’s overwhelming, and Quentin cries out, trying to find words. “Eliot, I...” 

“Quentin,” Eliot whispers, “you are fucking beautiful.” 

Quentin hears himself moaning, overwhelmed with every movement and the way that Eliot is clinging to him desperately as he thrusts his hips against Quentin’s ass. He can feel his orgasm building inside him, and from the way that Eliot’s voice rises and his legs start to shake and his thrusts lose their rhythm, he’s close, too. 

Eliot moves his arm down, wrapping his hand around Quentin’s cock, pumping it quick and hard in time with his thrusts. With Eliot’s hands on him, Quentin feels like something that never made sense is coming into focus.

Quentin cries out as his orgasm overtakes him and he spills onto the sheets, his legs trembling as he collapses onto the bed. Eliot’s hips drive against Quentin a final time, and the sound he makes as he comes echoes in Quentin’s mind, beautiful and primal.

Eliot collapses down onto Quentin and they lie still, his body draped across Quentin’s, both breathing hard as the room comes back into focus. Eliot’s breath is loud in Quentin’s ears, and the kisses he presses haphazardly across Quentin’s neck and shoulders are warm and wet and soft. 

After a moment, Eliot pulls out of Quentin and rolls over onto his side. Sweat slicks Quentin’s back, suddenly turning cold without Eliot wrapped around it. Quentin lets his muscles relax and then turns onto his side, too. Eliot meets him in a kiss, strong and deep and filled with longing.

They’re messy, sweat and come sticky across the bed, and Eliot lazily does a tut that cleans it all up. Magic can be convenient, Quentin hadn’t forgotten that. He’s suddenly overwhelmingly tired. 

Eliot runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair, brushing down the back of his neck, along his jawline, smoothing his thumb against Quentin’s cheekbone. It’s sweet, and it makes Quentin want to never leave the bed.

“You’re ruining me,” Eliot says quietly, like he’s not sure if he’s saying it to Quentin, or if it’s just a thought that escapes and catches him off-guard.

Quentin’s saved from a response by Eliot’s sleepy laugh, and another kiss as he pulls a sheet over them. He doesn’t know what he’d say, anyway. Quentin can barely think of anything except Eliot, Eliot’s lips, the way it felt when Eliot was inside him, the need to stay nestled up as close to Eliot as possible now. He closes his eyes and drifts off to sleep in minutes, Eliot’s arms wrapped around him tightly. 

— — 

Quentin wakes up to his phone blaring an alarm so familiar that it takes him a minute to remember where he is. 6:00. He’s exhausted, but happy in a way that feels unfamiliar and also like something he’s been longing for. He looks to his side, half expecting the bed to be empty of anything besides regrets, but Eliot is still there, asleep, naked and gorgeous under the sheet. Quentin breathes out with relief. 

He crawls over to Eliot and curls up in his side, his hand across Eliot’s chest and his head nestled by his collarbone. Eliot murmurs in his sleep and wraps his hand around Quentin’s back like this is the most normal thing in the world. Quentin’s heart is pounding double time with nervousness and excitement and anticipation of the unknown. 

He has to get up and go to work, so there’s a limited timeframe for this resolve into whatever it’s going to become. He doesn’t want to let himself think about it, what Eliot’s response might be, how he might have thought and regretted and rethought things, because if Quentin lets himself go down that hole, he might not be able to climb back out. He tries to memorize this moment instead, this moment where he can continue looking at Eliot, the moment where he can still hold onto last night and everything Eliot said and did, and it’s untainted by whatever is going to happen next. 

Quentin presses a soft kiss to Eliot’s neck, and then his second alarm starts going and he has to move away from Eliot again, crossing the expanse of the bed to turn it off. Eliot’s fingertips follow him, dragging down his back and keeping the contact as he moves over. Quentin turns onto his back and Eliot is there on his side, close beside him, looking at him in a way that makes Quentin instantly blush. 

“Morning.”

Quentin’s lips feel dry, his voice catches in his throat. “Morning.” 

Eliot leans forward and kisses him, and it’s full of the promise of night before; not an uncomfortable imitation, not a question, not a goodbye. Eliot kisses him like he wants to keep kissing him, like they could stay here in this bed for the entire day and he wouldn’t regret it. Quentin doesn’t disagree. Except, he does have to go to work. 

“I—I have to go. To work.” Quentin’s voice is breathy, his attention caught between his own words and Eliot’s lips tracing a path down his neck. Quentin is suddenly painfully aware that there is no chance he’s going to be on time to work today. 

“No, you don’t.” 

It’s a compelling argument. Quentin’s eyes flutter shut as Eliot’s mouth travels farther down, his fingers drumming rhythms against Quentin’s hip bones. It is a fucking compelling argument. 

Except. They haven’t talked about any of this, and there’s no reason for him to think the same expiration date doesn’t still apply, which is a good reason to stop, and a good reason to never move, to take everything he can get before time runs out. 

“Should we, uh, should we talk?” The question comes out of his mouth before he can stop it, before he’s even decided he wants to ask it. 

Eliot laugh, pausing in the middle of licking a path across Quentin’s stomach, his fingers pressing bruises into Quentin’s hips. Quentin hates himself for making Eliot stop, Eliot should never stop. Eliot lifts his head and he’s far enough down on the bed that his breath brushes warm across Quentin’s cock and Quentin could actually not care less about talking anymore. 

“Actually,” Eliot says slowly, his face turning semi-serious, “I did want to mention something.” The worry building in Quentin’s chest dims, clouded by pleasure as Eliot draws the fingers of one hand lightly across Quentin’s cock, his breath still tickling across Quentin’s skin. 

“Y-yes?”

“My family asked if they could meet your parents.” He licks a stripe from the base of Quentin’s cock to its tip, slowly, deliberately, every single one of Quentin’s nerves lighting up one by one. “Since we’re engaged and all.”

Quentin tries to focus, tries to breathe and keep his eyes open, even though all he wants to do is lose himself in the perfect way Eliot touches him. Quentin never thought his sex life was missing anything in his past relationships, but now he realizes he was wrong, no one has ever touched him quite the way Eliot does before, soft and firm at the same time, insistent and like they have all the time in the world. 

“Um, I—I guess, I—” Quentin’s thoughts slide around like liquid. Families meet? He supposes it makes sense, normal people introduce their families when they’re serious—it’ll add credibility, it’ll probably make everyone happy, what’s the difference? Eliot wraps his lips around the head of Quentin’s cock and Eliot’s mouth is actually going to kill him. Quentin whimpers, then manages, “Yeah, okay.” 

Eliot pulls off and smiles, although Quentin doesn’t know if it’s because he didn’t argue about the parents thing or if it’s a response to the incredibly embarrassing noises falling from Quentin’s lips. Quentin feels hot and wound too tightly, and his cock is leaking and it’s all too much, and Eliot is still looking at him. Reasonable, rational Quentin knows it’s not a great idea to bring their families anywhere near each other when this is ending so soon, but that part of him is being crushed by the part that wants to make Eliot smile and wants an excuse for them to be together and just wants. 

Eliot is crawling up Quentin’s body, kissing him and pressing down so Quentin can feel that Eliot’s just as hard as he is, and the way their bodies slot together is just as perfect this morning as it was the night before. Quentin kisses Eliot like his life depends on it, and he can hear Eliot start to make little unintentional sounds himself and yeah, Quentin is absolutely not making it to work today. 


	6. Chapter 6

Eliot is nervous. Eliot doesn’t get nervous, not really—he dreads things like seeing his family, but he doesn’t usually feel this nervous anticipation. He’s always in control of the moment, never lets anxiety get the better of him—and he’d really like this new type to go away. 

He's hovering by Margo's window, the one that faces the street, waiting and looking out at the snow, which is showing no signs of stopping. Eliot doesn't do this sort of thing—he doesn't wait by the window to see if he can spot the car arriving, two drinks in and still feeling this nervous; he doesn't wonder how it will be when they see each other, after this morning, after last night, after planning the get together and a few scattered texts and then radio silence all afternoon. This isn't how it was supposed to work  _ at all _ ; he was supposed to give Quentin the best fuck of his life and get him out of his system, he was supposed to stop caring now, he was supposed to be detached and counting down the days until he’ll be free again on January 2nd, not waiting nervously at the fucking window. 

A car pulls up and Eliot can see Quentin's face in the dim glow of the streetlight and it makes him shiver, his stomach doing cartwheels. God, he wants to touch him again, he would give anything to make the time pass until Quentin is up the stairs and back into his arms and...he is so incredibly fucked.

Eliot puts on his most I-don't-give-a-damn face and races towards the door before they've even had time to ring the bell, calling out "I've got it." He barely sees Margo's raised eyebrow as he flies past her and lets them in, pulling open the door preemptively.  _ Calm the fuck down. _

Quentin appears on the threshold after a moment, his parents steps behind him, but Eliot barely sees them. Quentin is flushed from the cold and wearing an incredibly ugly, green knit hat that's just the worst kind of homemade. He's smiling guardedly, and Eliot wishes he knew how to separate the fake fiance from the very real Quentin who was in his bed earlier, how to tell which one is smiling and which one is guarded; he wants to know if Quentin is glad to be here but afraid of the parental interaction, or if he is begrudgingly here and playing the role. 

They never talked about it. Maybe they should have, but they didn't because Eliot didn't want to, because he thought the sex would shake loose the knots in his stomach, he thought it would wipe the image of Quentin's face out of his brain, he thought it would make everything easier. He thought it would be just sex and then goodbye and it  _ wasn't, _ it  _ isn't,  _ and now it's occurring to him that Quentin might have been thinking the same thing, and how could he fault him when it was supposed to be that way for both of them. When it's better this way.

They both hesitate, standing there in the doorway for long seconds that stretch on endlessly. Until Eliot remembers that it doesn't really matter, the reality of the situation, when they have to keep pretending regardless. He reaches forward and pulls Quentin into a hug. He means it to be quick, just a reminder for both of them, but then Quentin wraps his arms around Eliot, too, and he doesn't care if it's all fake, he grasps at the moment, the feel of Quentin's shoulders beneath his hands and of Quentin's hands on his back. Eliot wants to take him back to the spare room, to do everything they didn't do on Christmas Eve, and everyone else be damned. He wants to push him against the wall and drop to his knees and suck Quentin off right there in front of everyone. He wants to whisper it all in Quentin's ear and feel his body react while they're pressed together, he wants to make Quentin shake and whimper and call out his name. He wants to ask him if it's real, if the smile is really for Eliot, or just for everyone else. 

Instead, he just lets go, after what feels like a reasonable amount of time but isn't nearly enough. 

"Hi." He's still looking at Quentin, but he snaps back into Margo's living room when they lose contact, and remembers there's a purpose to all of them being there. "This is my sister Margo, her wife, Fen, and my mother. Everyone, meet Quentin's parents."

Quentin stumbles into the conversation, quickly filling in his parents' names. Everyone trades pleasantries and Eliot watches Quentin's face, which is full of emotion but too complicated right now for him to read. 

"Great, well now we all know each other, maybe Eliot can take your coats?" Margo gives him a look, one that means  _ you're being a baby and also a bad host, what the fuck.  _ "El, just put them in the spare room." 

"Yes, right." Eliot reaches out to take coats from Quentin's parents while Quentin firmly holds onto his own. 

"Um, I'll help," Quentin says quickly, even though Eliot really doesn't need help with three coats. Eliot shrugs and Margo winks at him unhelpfully. 

They filter off down the hallway while everyone else goes into the living room. Eliot can hear them discovering Margo's decorations, which are ridiculous and over the top, in the best way. 

Eliot throws the coats onto the bed (thanks, Margo, for the detailed instructions) and is turning to say something friendly and not laden with emotion to Quentin when he's slammed against the inside wall of the room, out of view of the doorway, and Quentin is entirely in Eliot's personal space, his hands pressed against Eliot's chest, his tongue in Eliot's mouth, his hips pushing into Eliot's. 

The surprise fades almost immediately into want, strong and rough and pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. Eliot wraps his hand into Quentin's hair, the other going to his waist, pulling him in even though they're already pressed together tightly. He gives Quentin's hair a gentle tug and Quentin moans, and fuck the door is still open and they can't just disappear unnoticed into this room for the whole evening, not when it's supposed to be about them, no matter how much Eliot wants to. 

He loosens his hold on Quentin, pushes him away, slightly, just enough so that he can breathe and there's absolutely no chance of Quentin pressing up against him like that, the way that makes him forget anyone else is there, makes him forget his own fucking name. 

Eliot can feel Quentin pushing back, trying to move closer again, and he struggles to remember words. "Hi." Succinct, classic, great. 

Quentin laughs breathily. "Hi."

"I wasn't sure..." Eliot trails off. He can't figure out what he wants to say, because normally this is where he'd smile and shut the door and ten minutes later they'd leave and no one would have to say anything because it was all understood to be exactly what it was. This...isn't that. Unless it is. "I thought we might be back to just acting."

He means it to be teasing, but the tone comes out differently and Quentin says a quiet "Oh," pulling back just a little more, and Eliot hates himself just a little. He didn't want to create more distance, he just doesn't know exactly what to do in this precise situation.

"I didn't mean it like that," he says quickly, which is just broad enough to cover himself regardless of Quentin's reply. 

"We've only got a few days left," Quentin offers, but it sounds like a question and also clears up absolutely nothing. Except that it sounds like a question. Eliot's hands tighten where they're still holding Quentin, an almost imperceptible show of possession; Eliot doesn't want to let go, not now, not in six days. If only he thought it wasn't a passing feeling, if only he suspected Quentin felt anywhere near the same way, if only, if only. A thought occurs. 

"Maybe we should push the date, a little? For the breakup?" Eliot pours nonchalance into his tone, but it still feels big, like a question that actually means something, even if all it means is that he'll have a few more days of Quentin in his bed while he pretends that's all he needs. 

Quentin still looks uncertain, but he lights up with a smile, pressing back into Eliot's space, filling in the hole forming inside of Eliot, even if it's only temporary. "Are. Are you sure?"

"Yes.” Eliot leans in and kisses him, more softly, just to reinforce his words. Quentin presses into it, doesn’t pull away until Eliot does. 

“Maybe.” Quentin’s voice is small and uncertain, but hopeful. “Maybe we don’t have to do it at all. The breakup.”

Eliot stares at him, his mind swirling with thoughts of what if; this is what he wants, isn’t it? Confirmation that it wasn’t just him, that this is something real and he should grab it while the opportunity is there. Eliot kisses Quentin’s forehead. “Maybe we should try.” 

He keeps his tone level, but Eliot’s insides are a mess of excitement and terror and anticipation and everything else, all of his emotions joining together in one knot that sits heavily in his throat. He wants this, though, he wants to try, he wants to see if he can be enough. 

“We should probably go back out there,” Quentin says, looking almost wistfully at the bed. Which is far hotter than it has any right to be. 

“We should.” They  _ should _ , even though Eliot is reluctant to leave this moment, just in case it’s all a very well-fabricated dream, one from which he’ll have to wake sooner or later. Eliot wants a drink, but more than that, he wants to grasp Quentin’s hand and push him down onto the bed and find out what it’s like to allow himself to want someone with all the strings attached. 

They can’t stay in this room, and Eliot does take Quentin’s hand, and they walk back down the hallway together. He can almost see the sparks arcing off of their connected skin, the thrill of it so much stronger than every illicit affair he’s ever had before; Eliot wants to hold Quentin’s hand as long as he can, he wants to hold onto this feeling like he’s weightless, like nothing can go wrong, like no one else matters. He knows, of course he knows, that it’s all tenuous, that it can’t last, but Eliot is an expert at swallowing that feeling down and giving into the blind enjoyment of the moment. Or at least, he’s an expert at trying. 

“Wow.” Quentin looks like he might start laughing, and Eliot realizes he hasn’t seen the decorations yet. “That’s, um, big?”

“Thanks!” Margo beams. “Equal representation and all.” The menorah is about five feet tall, not counting the flames, and they’re hilariously proud of it. Eliot has no idea where they found it or if they just charmed something to be larger than normal for the one night, but it is definitely fair competition for the Christmas tree. He did double check that Margo had put up a fire-resistance ward as soon as he saw the giant thing, though.

“Uh, right.” 

“It’s very festive,” Ted says gamely. Quentin’s mom looks like she wants to say something much less friendly, but she bites her tongue. 

They settle in the living room and then have dinner and then back to the living room for coffee, and it all goes surprisingly well. Quentin’s parents and Eliot’s mother are all on their best behavior, minus some occasional and furtive looks of annoyance, which is honestly the very best case scenario. Now that they’ve made their decision about the planned breakup, Eliot feels weirdly invested in the night not going too poorly, and it seems to actually be going well. Margo keeps his glass filled, which is part of it. But maybe it also has to do with the constant, comforting pressure of Quentin’s hand in his, the inadvertent squeeze when Quentin gets anxious, the way he seems to be able to quickly help those feelings dissipate. Eliot feels useful, and wanted, and it all comes together much more smoothly than he’d let himself imagine. 

Until it doesn’t. 

They all filter back into the living room, after dinner, while dishes are cleaned and dessert is prepared. Eliot watches as Quentin talks to Margo, and Quentin’s mom talks to his mother, listening idly to the latter as they coo over Jane. 

“...so lucky,” Quentin’s mom is saying. “I was sure I would be a grandmother soon, when he was with Alice, but now..?” She shrugs, and Eliot’s mother nods sympathetically. “And he’s an only child.”

Eliot blinks, stirring himself from the pleasant endorphin and alcoholic stupor he’s been sitting in since Quentin pushed him against the wall. “Who’s Alice?” Neutral tone, but his insides are starting to writhe uneasily again.

Quentin’s mom looks up at him, surprised. “Alice. Quentin’s ex-fiancée? I’m sure he’s told you about her.” 

There’s a question embedded there, and it catches Eliot beneath his feet and threatens to toss him to the ground. No, he hasn’t told him; or, Quentin had mentioned the engagement, but Eliot had just assumed it was a guy, he’d just assumed that what was happening between them was normal for Quentin, not a one-off, not an experiment. His mind twists with conflicting thoughts; how could he be potentially throwing himself into something so fully without even checking on the possibility of it being real or not. 

“Oh, of course,” he finally replies, but everyone seems to have moved on, unaware of his internal turmoil, or the fact that he’s possibly maybe completely infatuated with someone who’s leaving kind of big things unsaid. Eliot banishes that thought from his mind immediately. 

“Don’t be an ass,” Margo whispers from beside him. He hadn’t even noticed her coming over. “Who cares if mommy dearest liked the ex, he’s marrying you.”

“Yeah, right.” The words come slowly, like he’s speaking into a void of molasses. She’s being supportive, really, and it tugs at that guilty, buried part of him, the part that knows it’s a lie, even if they stay together a little longer, they’re not really together because it’s all just a lie. And the fact that he’s so thrown, that he wants so much for it to be real and have a future and the barest prick of the opposite has completely unbalanced him, that fact just means that it’s not meant to be. He’s trying too hard, and it’s all pretend, and he doesn’t want to get hurt. 

“Get me a drink?” Eliot’s not going to give into this, the panic, the doubt, but he can feel it start to simmer in him, just below the surface. He should have seen it coming, really—he’s not the hero at the end of the stupid fucking love story, he’s the distracting fascination along the way. 

Margo nods; looking concerned. She leaves for the kitchen, where Fen and Ted are still working on dishes and dessert. Eliot walks over to Quentin, who’s staring off into nothing, and grabs his arm, pulling him out of his chair and into the hallway again. 

“I have to talk to you.”

“Um, o—okay.” 

Once they’re out of clear sight, Eliot drops Quentin’s arm, feeling the emptiness of losing contact already. He wishes he was back ten minutes ago, before the doubt crept in under his lowered defenses. “I’m going to ask you three questions, okay?” 

Quentin nods. He’s worried, which Eliot hates, it makes Eliot feel terrible, but he’s just protecting himself here. “You were with Alice for how long?” 

Quentin frowns. “Uh, a few years?” 

“And your longest relationship with a girl, before that?” 

“What? Maybe nine months?” 

Eliot swallows. “And with a guy?” 

Quentin’s frown deepens, chases his thoughts across his face as he realizes what Eliot’s talking about. “Eliot, that’s not—it doesn’t matter.”

“Answer the question.” Eliot's not done, not yet, but he’s starting to feel the softness inside him turn hard, defenses rising up. “Six months? Three months?” 

Quentin looks at the floor and sighs, and it pierces Eliot like a sword. “Maybe. But it has nothing to do with—“ 

He cuts himself off as they hear a crash from the direction of the kitchen. Quentin looks sorry, but he turns away, he leaves Eliot standing there until the crash resolves into panicked voices and Eliot can’t stay hiding in the hallway anymore.

He walks confidently back into the living room, and stops in his tracks. Fuck, oh fuck. Quentin’s dad is on the floor, cups and a tray scattered around him, broken ceramics like snow. Quentin’s mom is on the phone and Quentin’s kneeling down by his dad and Eliot’s mom is running around doing something and Eliot just stands there like an idiot, certain he’s in the middle of lots of noise but he can’t hear anything, he can’t do anything, he just. 

Until there’s an ambulance outside and it all snaps back into loud, panicked focus. Quentin and his mom leave with the EMTs, and Margo is wrapping Eliot’s coat around his shoulders. 

“We’re all going to follow them.” She frowns. His mother and Fen and Jane are already in their coats. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah.” Eliot shakes his head to clear his thoughts. They’re still together, even if it isn’t...and it doesn’t matter anyway, because he  _ likes _ Ted, and this is real, and it matters, and he wants to be there for Quentin even if it’s the last time he is. “Yeah, of course. Let’s go.” 

The drive to the hospital is excruciating, even though his mother keeps talking about how fast they can go behind the ambulance, it’s still about half of Eliot’s normal driving speed, and he’s distracted. He wants it to be okay, he wants to  _ know _ it’s okay, so he can figure out his own shit. 

They sit in an almost empty waiting room. After a little while, Quentin and his mom come out from some inner hospital area and sit with them. Quentin sits right next to Eliot, which feels notable until Eliot remembers that he  _ has _ to. His face is drawn and creased with worry and all of the thoughts and fears swirling around Eliot dissipate for a moment, and he takes Quentin’s hand in his own tightly. It’s all going to be okay. Even if it isn’t. 

He wants to kiss away every crease, every worry, he wants Quentin to smile. He thinks he should probably say something. 

“How is he?” Margo asks, because she’s always better at this stuff, at being direct when it matters. 

“They’re running some tests,” Quentin says, hoarsely. Eliot wants to tell him it’s okay to be upset, here, with people who care about him. He says nothing. 

“It’ll be okay,” Fen says, rocking Jane on her lap, and Eliot’s mother nods. God, everyone is better at this than he is. “We’ll all stay until you hear more.” 

_ They’ll all stay _ . Eliot feels the grip of guilt around his throat again. They’ll all stay because they think this is Eliot’s fiancé, because that’s what Eliot told them. Fucking hell. He really needs a drink, hospitals should really have a bar. 

“Thank you.” Quentin looks a little bit guilty, too, but his voice is shaking, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“At least, if it’s...” Quentin’s mom starts and stops, takes a breath, continues. “At least he got to meet Eliot, to know that Quentin found someone so wonderful.” 

“We’re all so lucky to have had tonight,” Eliot’s mother adds. “To all be together.” 

Jesus fucking Christ. If Eliot didn’t know better, he’d think they were all laying it on this thick because they  _ wanted _ them to confess to it being a lie. He’s usually so good at keeping secrets, but this is, this is just wrong. They’re in a fucking  _ hospital _ . This is serious and it’s definitely wrong to lie to someone who may be actually seriously sick. Especially since Eliot can feel all of the cracks getting bigger and bigger. The guilt writhes through Eliot like a snake, eating at him from the inside. He should say something, they should  _ say something _ . He should have brought his flask; he didn’t think to when he was ushered out of Margo’s apartment. 

Quentin’s gripping Eliot’s hand so hard he’s starting to lose feeling in it, and the numbness is directly competing with the tangle of thoughts in his head fighting for control. He doesn’t know what will happen when he lets go of Quentin’s hand.

“And we only heard about Eliot last month,” Quentin’s mom continues, like she doesn’t know what she’s doing, like she’s unaware she’s making holes in their story. 

“We didn’t know about Quentin until the start of December.” Margo sounds like she’s still a little bit pissed about that. Which is fair. 

“How long  _ have _ you been together?” Fen asks, her face scrunched up in thought. It’s such a reasonable question, of course it’s not a problem to say how long they’ve been together, especially since they’ve presented this as a secret they’ve decided to share, instead of a secret they’ve kept from everyone. 

“Nine months,” Quentin says at the same time that Eliot says, “Four months.”  _ Fuck. _

Eliot’s mother laughs like it’s not weird. “Well, which is it?”

They very specifically are not looking at each other; Eliot can feel his eyes trying to pull over to Quentin, but if they look at each other it’ll seem so obviously to be a lie. Quentin is still squeezing his hand like he can’t let go, and Eliot feels like the walls are falling down around them. 

“Nine months.” Eliot forces himself to laugh. “But time, you know, flies. When you’re having fun.” 

The attempt at a joke lands with a thud. Margo looks like she’s ready to jump up and cry “ah-ha!” and she’s not the only one. The mothers both look concerned verging on suspicious. Fuck fuck fuck. 

“So you’ve been together nine months?” Eliot’s mother clarifies, “That’s quick to be getting married, don’t you think?”

Eliot wants to tell her to take her judgmental tone and shove it up her ass, but it’s probably not the place for that. And besides, Quentin’s mom seems to be nodding in agreement. And, well, they’re not entirely wrong, considering they’ve actually only known each other for about a month. What the hell was Eliot thinking, thinking they could keep this up longer?

There’s a moment, a tense moment, where no one says anything and everyone is looking at him and Quentin with varying degrees of suspicion and, in Margo’s case, a bit of hurt. Which is when Julia walks in. 

“I got here as quickly as I could,” she says, breathing hard, red-faced like she’d been running, wearing way too much makeup to have been sitting at home. Quentin must have called her. For some reason, that annoys the shit out of Eliot. 

Julia looks around at everyone’s faces; at Eliot simmering with guilt and confusion and at Quentin, and at all of their collective family members. “Am I interrupting something?” And then her face lights with understanding; Eliot should have known that wouldn’t mean anything good. “Oh, did you tell them?” 

“Tell us what?” Of course Fen asks, like she can’t tell it’s all about to implode. 

“About. The engagement?” Julia says slowly, like she doesn’t know what  _ she’s _ doing. 

“What about it?” Margo asks, already sounding angry. 

Julia turns to Quentin. “Q, you have to tell them, now. It isn’t right, not when—” She gestures around them, and Eliot understands. This isn’t the place for lies.

“Tell us what?” Eliot’s mother says. 

Eliot has a moment where he thinks he can stop it, where he thinks he can save it and push down all the guilt and the fear. And then the moment ends. 

“Nothing! It’s nothing.” Quentin tries to cover, but his tone is too positive to sound real and Eliot can tell that there’s nothing left holding this up. They’re in a fucking hospital and he’s in over his head and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“It  _ is _ nothing.” Eliot lets go of Quentin’s hand. “It’s fake, it’s all fake.”

It feels good, when he’s said it; he’s not lying to Margo, and he’s not under the weight of a dying man’s hopes and expectations, and he’s not getting stuck in something he doesn’t know he can sustain. It feels good until he turns and sees Quentin’s face. 

“It’s…fake? What exactly is fake?” Margo asks slowly.

Eliot sighs. “The engagement, all of it. We were pretending in order to appease all of you, to make the holidays a little easier. It was all a fucking charade. Are you happy?” Eliot doesn’t look at her. He’s looking at Quentin, and Quentin doesn’t look angry, or betrayed, he just looks hurt. Eliot would give anything to not have caused that look. 

“Was all of it fake?” Quentin’s voice is small, and Eliot hates himself. But better to do it now, to get it over with, instead of waiting until Quentin decides he’d rather be with a girl, until Eliot stops waiting to be dropped and leaves. Before they hurt each other worse. Eliot nods.

“Maybe we should leave?” Fen says quietly. Of course, they really should. They have no reason to be here, no connection, not really. 

“Give us a minute, first,” Quentin says firmly, and he pulls Eliot up with him, around a corner and into a deserted hallway. 

“What the fuck was that?” Quentin nearly yells when they’re alone, and Eliot winces. 

“We’re in a hospital, Quentin, it’s serious, and they’re putting so much onto us _. _ Julia was right—we couldn’t keep lying to them.”

“What happened to  _ trying? _ ” Eliot can see that he’s close to crying, really crying, and for some reason it just makes Eliot want to dig his heels in deeper. This was supposed to be simple, this was supposed to be  _ business. _ This wasn’t supposed to involve crying in a hospital hallway at night. “What about us?”

“There is no  _ us,  _ Quentin.” Eliot’s voice is getting too loud, but he doesn’t know how to stop himself, doesn’t know what he’s even angry about. “We barely know each other and we just got swept up.” His voice softens. “But we wouldn’t really choose each other, not when it’s just back to real life.”

“This  _ is _ real life!” Quentin’s actually shouting now, his voice scratchy and emotional. “These past few weeks have felt more real than things have in years, and I know—” he pauses, lowers his voice, takes a step towards Eliot. “I know you feel the same way, I know there’s something there and we said we’d try, so why the fuck not? Why not try?” 

The hallway is spinning, the blood rushing loudly in Eliot’s ears. It’s all just a stopgap, and he’s better off ending it. They’re both better off. Nothing’s different, he was just confused, and swept up, and it’s not real. There’s a fucking piece of paper saying it’s not real. Eliot thinks about the rules and about the whole fucking thing and he doesn’t even know why he says it, but he does. 

“Red.” 

He says it quietly, but firmly, and he can see Quentin’s face travel from confusion to distress, and there’s nothing Eliot can say or do now. They needed a word for when things got to be too much, and there it is—it’s too much for Eliot, and he knows it, and Quentin knows it, and there’s nothing anyone can say. Eliot feels drained, and he doesn’t know if he did the right thing or not, but at least it’s over and done with. So then why does he feel so fucking terrible?

“I should go, unless you want…” Eliot’s voice trails off.  _ Unless you want me to stay. _ What the fuck is wrong with him?

“No,” Quentin says slowly, turning away. “You should go.”

Eliot can feel something break inside of him, shatter into a million pieces, as Quentin walks away. It’s not regret, exactly, it’s something sharper and deeper and unfamiliar. Eliot can see snow falling heavier again through the window. It makes everything worse.

“Hey.” Margo puts her hand on his shoulder. He hadn’t noticed her come over. He hadn’t realized he’d been standing by himself long enough for them to feel comfortable approaching. “Are you okay?” 

Eliot looks at her. It does feel better to no longer be lying to Margo, and he can see that she’s angry with him, but she’s going to choke it down, because she can tell that something happened beyond the lie coming out. He tries to put on a smile. Eliot’s always breaking up with people, and that’s after  _ actually dating them _ and he’s always fine, always able to smile and walk away and take Margo’s sympathy even though he doesn’t really need it. This time, even the smile isn’t coming easily. 

“Of course. Let’s go.”

Eliot doesn’t look back towards the waiting room when Margo smiles at him encouragingly. He doesn’t look back as they turn towards the elevators. He doesn’t look back until it’s almost too late, until they’re all the way at the elevator and he can barely make out Quentin, sitting next to his mom, looking at his hands. There’s a tiny part of Eliot that he will deny forever, that thinks maybe Quentin will look up when Eliot looks back, that their eyes will meet and it will all have been a misunderstanding and they’ll run to each other and it’ll be like a fairy tale ending. Except that Quentin’s dad is still in the hospital. And Eliot still said what he said. And Quentin doesn’t look up. And the elevator doors slide shut. 

— — 

Quentin stumbles into his apartment. It’s dark, and he barely wants to turn on the light, because he doesn’t want to see anything, least of all himself. He’s been crying, and it’s not like he fucking cares he just can’t deal with it, not yet, not right now. 

His dad is okay. He’s still in the hospital, but he’s okay, and that’s what matters. That’s what matters, but Quentin’s brain is stuck on Eliot, and how he should have fucking known that someone like him could never end up with someone like Eliot, that he was always going to be too much or not enough or somehow both, that it was all just pretend, and he was a fool to let it start to feel real. 

Quentin slams his shin into the edge of his bedframe, trying to walk in the dark, exhausted and drained. He curses into the empty air, yells at the bedframe and the dark and everything else until he starts to feel afraid that he won’t be able to stop the outpouring of emotion, and he closes his mouth and turns on a light. Breathe. 

The light helps, a little bit. The apartment is empty, which is normal, comforting. Thank god he never got a chance to bring Eliot here, to ruin this place with his hopes, with his apparently one-sided feelings. 

Quentin’s eyes catch something reflecting the light and he turns on it—it’s the picture Margo took of him and Eliot, the glass of the frame, and the anger bubbles up again. He’d forgotten that he’d put it by his bed when things were good, yesterday fucking morning. 

Suddenly, he can’t stand it. The picture or the Eliot or how stupid and happy they look or any of it. He yells and the anger pours out, the energy hitting the frame and sending it skidding across the surface of his nightstand and slamming into the wall, shattering the glass into tiny pieces, littering the floor with glittering shards. 

Quentin’s yell dies in his throat and turns into a sob, and he doesn’t fight it, because what’s the point? He’s alone, of course he’s alone; he can’t even manage to hold onto a fake relationship. Pathetic. Quentin lets himself lie down on his bed and cry, until he finally falls asleep. 

— — 

“Fuck off!” Quentin calls out as his door opens. It’s Julia, he knows it’s Julia, since she’s the only one who has his extra key, but he doesn’t want to see her right now. He doesn’t want to see anyone. He wants to lie on his bed in his ratty old t-shirt and shorts and pretend that nothing exists.

He closes his eyes, hoping either he or Julia will just disappear if he can’t see anything. Quentin’s been sleeping a lot the past day and a half, but closing his eyes he can feel how his body still longs for sleep, to escape his conscious thoughts. 

“Hi, Q.” Quentin opens his eyes to Julia’s face hovering over his, very close, too close. She looks out of proportion and silly, and he almost laughs, until Penny appears over her shoulder. Quentin groans. They both look serious and worried and Julia looks too sympathetic and Quentin desperately doesn’t want to see anyone—he might have been okay with Julia, but Penny is absolutely at the bottom of that list. They’re not even friends. And it’s Saturday. He’s pretty sure it’s Saturday. 

“I said fuck off,” he mumbles, trying to glare at Julia. He’s not sure if his face is convincing, he’s not sure his face can be anything but a mask of sadness and disappointment. Julia doesn’t react. Quentin’s aware, deep down, that she’s being a good friend by checking in on him, but right now he’d prefer she be a terrible friend and leave him alone. Plus, why the fuck is Penny there? “And why is  _ he  _ here?” 

“You didn’t come to work yesterday,” Penny says, like he’s challenging Quentin to fight about it. “We were worried.” 

“Well, I’m fine,” Quentin says, rolling over and sitting up; his voice cracks as he says “fine,” undermining the sentiment. He feels dizzy, and he wants to lie down again immediately, and it’s cold as shit in his apartment without the blanket he’s been hiding under. Quentin shivers and grabs a discarded sweater from the floor.

“Clearly,” Julia replies, picking out some music to play over his crappy computer speakers and then going to the kitchen, filling glasses with water and searching through the cabinets where his alcohol usually lives. 

Quentin pulls the sweater over his head, scowling. The fabric glides across his face and his world is hit suddenly by the smell of Eliot, surrounding him, clinging to the threads—this is the sweater he wore, he realizes, when he went to Eliot’s apartment, when they...Quentin can’t think of a word that doesn’t make his stomach churn violently. It’s terrible and wonderful, he wants to fling the sweater across the room, he wants to never take it off. He looks up helplessly, meets Penny’s eyes instead of Julia’s. 

Quentin wants...something. He wants Eliot, he wants to kiss Eliot and fuck Eliot and be with him and not have to worry because it’s all as real as it feels. Only that’s not possible. Because Eliot doesn’t want that, doesn’t want  _ him _ . Full stop. 

Penny walks over to the bed and sits down tentatively on the edge of it, looking like he’s not certain if he’s annoyed by the lack of other seating options or not. Quentin abruptly wonders why he’s never accepted one of Penny’s offers for a date—he’s not unattractive, not at all, and he’s  _ there _ , he’s always there: hanging over Quentin’s cube or stopping him when he leaves, never running the opposite way. He imagines Penny would be good in bed, good enough to chase away the persistent images of Eliot, to help him forget. Quentin lets his imagination wander a little, trying to distract himself from the heartache that is his reality. 

Penny snaps his fingers in front of Quentin’s face, breaking the reverie. “Hey, cut that the fuck out.” Oh, right, mental wards, which Quentin isn’t even pretending to keep up right now; he wonders which part of the images Penny is objecting to. Penny scowls. “Under different circumstances, sure. But I’m not looking to be your rebound from that asshole.” 

Quentin frowns. “How did you know that we…” He can’t even say broke up, he doesn’t even know if that’s the right term for it. They just fell apart. The way everything he touches does. 

“I told him,” Julia replies, handing Quentin and Penny both a glass of water and a glass of wine before sitting down with her own glasses. “And I talked to your mom.”

He laughs, nothing is funny. “I bet she was real sympathetic.”

Julia shrugs. “Yeah, she wasn’t happy about the part where it was all a trick.”

Quentin sighs. He can feel Penny’s narrowed eyes on him; clearly Julia hasn’t  _ fully _ filled him in on the situation. He puts the water glass on the floor and drinks some of the wine. “It wasn’t though. I mean, yeah, at first, but…” He can feel his voice breaking, and it’s embarrassing and terrible and he doesn’t know how to stop it except by drowning his words in his glass. He hasn’t felt this broken since…ever, maybe. Even last year, when Alice called off their engagement, he didn’t feel so completely destroyed as he does now. 

“I know,” Julia says, more kindly than he expects from her. “So we’re here for breakup duty, basically. Except it turns out your kitchen has nothing but half a bottle of wine in it.” She turns to Penny. “So after you drink that, you’re gonna go out and get like a ton more bottles, and also some ice cream, and we’ll go from there.”

Penny makes a face and grumbles about only being invited to run errands until Julia shoots him a look. He drains his glass and puts his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Just so you know, I’m only here because helping you feel better gets me some points, cosmically speaking.” Julia snorts and Penny gets up and strides out the door. 

“He’s fucking lying, he practically begged me to take him with me to see you,” Julia says, draining her own wine and pulling his laptop towards her. “Let’s watch something happy.”

Quentin tries to appreciate it, tries to be glad that they’re there. He tries through Penny coming back with enough wine and ice cream to sustain them for days, he tries through glasses that seem to never get empty, through eating and drinking and laughing even though the core of him knows that it’s not funny, nothing is; he tries through watching a series of movies that Julia knows he loves, through attempts to cheer him up, through moments when he almost forgets, and then is shaken as something suddenly reminds him of what he’d found and what he’s lost. 

He wishes they would get the hint and leave, but they don’t. Quentin drinks and talks a little and lets Julia and Penny carry the conversation and by the time they finally leave it’s late and he’s drunk and everything seems like it’s coming at him through a haze of numbness and exhaustion. It feels a little bit better even though it isn’t. 

“You’re sure you don’t want me to stay?” Julia asks, and even through his drunkenness he can hear the worry in her voice, the old fears that come from not taking him seriously years ago. 

Quentin shakes his head. “I’m okay.” His voice sounds slurred and hollow to his ears. “Really.”

Penny turns and braces both his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, like they’re going to have a really important serious conversation. “Don’t forget, you can do better.” It’s almost sweet, except then Penny winks. 

“Uh, thanks.”

Then they’re gone and Quentin’s alone and as soon as he breathes out in relief he realizes that this is worse. As much as he hated having to be social, now the feelings that were held off slightly by the need to look less like a mess in front of people all come rushing back like a wave, slamming into him so that he has to grip his countertop to keep from falling. The emptiness, the pain, the sadness, the worry about his dad all flood his brain, a screaming cacophony. 

Quentin finds a bottle of wine they hadn’t yet opened and drags it to his bed, throwing himself down. He’s going to get sick, he knows that, but the act of taking another drink straight from the mouth of the bottle is comforting somehow, even the way his head spins with the drunkenness is better than it spinning with emotions. 

Penny’s words, glib as they might have been, echo in Quentin’s head. Can he do better? He didn’t even really think he could as good as someone like Eliot; he’s not even sure there  _ is _ anyone out there who would count as better. He wishes they’d never met, he wishes he’d never gone to the park that day, he wishes nothing had ever happened beyond the agreed terms. Except that he doesn’t, he can’t regret it, not really. He just wishes he could. 

He pulls out his phone, just for something to do, and opens his messages. He should text Eliot, he should really, really fucking not text Eliot. He should, in fact, probably delete Eliot’s number. Quentin laughs out loud. He’s never going to do that, he didn’t even delete Alice’s number. Except…that was different, because Alice never told him point blank that she didn’t want him, that she didn’t feel anything; they didn’t work but it wasn’t the same kind of utter, unarguable rejection. Quentin tries to think of a text he could possibly send to Eliot, but he can’t. There’s nothing he can say. 

He closes the text thread and pauses, taking a long drink of wine. Spinning, swimmy feelings. Another New Year’s alone, another breakup right when everyone says you’re supposed to be merry and hopeful and shit. Another failure. He opens a new text and types in Alice’s number without thinking too much about it. He doesn’t know why, he just. He wants to talk to someone, and not to Julia, and not to his parents, and who else is there? 

_ Why does everyone break up me right before New Year’s?  _

He looks at the text. It looks pathetic, and he can’t tell if he already pressed send or not. He wants to add something, he wants to say…he doesn’t know, but he wants to say something that will make him feel better, his alcohol-saturated brain certain that those words exist. 

_ I guess I miss you mAybe we should talk. cause you used to love me. Come to the NyE party _

He’s not expecting a reply, he’s not even sure if he’s really sending them, he’s not even sure who he’s talking to or what he’s doing. He puts down the phone and the bottle on the floor and curls up on his bed, letting sleep overtake him. 

— — 

Eliot gets to Margo’s house late. He’s been getting everywhere late, although he may have just skipped work entirely, since he’s not sure what day it is—Margo and his mother should be glad he’s even made it before they left for the airport. 

“Look who rolled up at the last possible minute,” Margo says, unimpressed, as she opens her door. She already has her coat on. Eliot’s been to Margo’s apartment so many times that he’s surprised that walking in makes him feel anything, but it does, like a knot growing in his stomach. 

After the hospital, Eliot went straight to the bar, and plied his body with liquor until it didn’t feel anything anymore, and when the bar closed he went home and drank more and closed his blinds so he didn’t have to see the still falling snow. Margo showed up around 2am, when he was sitting in the dark with a glass in one hand, absently lighting and extinguishing a candle across the room with the other. 

_ “ _ Jesus Fuck, El,” she said, throwing her coat over a chair and dropping down on the couch next to him. “It’s this bad?”

Eliot had just stared at her. “Are you here to drink with me or to criticize me?”

Margo had sighed, nabbed a glass off of Eliot’s bar cart, and poured herself a drink. Eliot remembers it, remembers watching her, but he can’t remember feeling anything, can’t remember if he was glad she was there or if he wished he could be alone with his unhappiness. 

“Okay, so here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to ignore the part where you fucking lied to me and focus on the part where you’re clearly not okay.” She hesitated, and Eliot felt the recurring cycle of panic-regret-want chasing through him. “Did you end it, or did he?”

“It was…it had to happen. It wouldn’t have worked, not really.” It felt hollow and stupid, like a decision someone else made, one that left him broken and clawing to get out of this hole. He expected her to ask why, because they always ask why, they always do this dance around actually talking about breakups, the one that lets them pretend that it’s some external cause, that allows Eliot to feel bad and drink with his sister and then get over it. 

Margo cleared her throat. “I’m only going to say this once, so listen. It didn’t seem fake, El. I’ve seen you go through so many relationships, and this one felt the least fake. And I understand why that scares the shit out of you, but you do deserve that. So.” She kicked her feet onto his coffee table. “Now we can just get wasted and pretend it’s the same as every other breakup you’ve ever had, if you want.”

Eliot should have said something then, about how it was the pressure, and the feelings, and the way it felt too real and too strong and how something based on a lie was destined to fail anyway, he was just being smart to get ahead, to get out before he was in too deep and got hurt. He should have said he knew it wasn’t the same, deep down, and that’s why it had to happen. He should have said anything, but he didn’t, and they drank and ate cold pizza from his fridge until the sun came up and Margo had to leave and Eliot lay in his bed and pretended to sleep.

They haven’t spoken since then, though. Eliot’s been floating through bars, turning down propositions and simmering in his unhappiness. He can’t stop thinking about Margo saying it felt real, about  _ Quentin _ saying it was real; can’t stop thinking about touching Quentin and kissing Quentin and talking to Quentin and the whole stupid fucking thing. He keeps trying to banish the thoughts and they keep coming up, persistent until he dilutes them again with the next drink and the memory of thinking he was just a passing thing. 

It’s been days. Days of floating through his life and ignoring his responsibilities and wondering at the back of his mind, buried below the more confident thoughts, whether he’s made a huge mistake, whether he really was scared instead of sensing the inevitable. He wants to text Quentin, thinks about it, but he can’t make himself type anything, his pride won’t let him be the one to reach out. If Quentin actually cared, he would have fought more, he would have…chased Eliot through the streets or something. And instead, he didn’t even look up when Eliot left. 

“I came to say goodbye,” Eliot says, swallowing the feeling springing up with every step he takes into Margo’s apartment. 

“Yeah, no shit.” Margo looks at the time on her phone. “We have to leave in like ten minutes though.” 

Eliot’s about to ask where his mother is when she comes walking out of the hallway, dragging a suitcase behind her. She looks surprised to see Eliot, which he would be vaguely insulted by if he had the energy to care. 

“Eliot, I didn’t think you were coming.”

Eliot doesn’t have a witty response—he wasn’t sure he was coming, either. He probably could have not shown up, and everyone would have just blamed it on him being immature and unreliable, and it would be business as usual. 

“Well, here I am.”

Eliot’s mother hesitates, turning over a glove in her hands. “Could we maybe speak privately for just a moment, before I leave?”

Eliot can’t imagine what his mother wants to say to him that can’t also involve Margo; he glances at Margo and she shrugs. Great. He should have just stayed home. “Sure, let’s walk out to the car.”

He takes her suitcase and they leave the apartment, walking slowly down the stairs and outside. Margo’s rented a car that’s sitting, shiny and black and boring, by the curb outside of the apartment. Eliot still doesn’t understand why she won’t just let him borrow cars for her, but he supposes one has to either lack money or like cars to enjoy stealing them. 

His mother’s suitcase safely deposited in the trunk, Eliot turns back to her, dreading whatever conversation she wants to have. “So? What is it?”

“I liked him. Quentin.” 

What an opener. Eliot strongly considers walking away—what could she do to stop him? If only the sudden pounding in his head wasn’t making it difficult to follow through on that thought.

“God, can everyone stop talking about Quentin?”

His mother gives him a disapproving look, one he’s been getting all his life. “Eliot, don’t be dramatic.” 

“You’re right, and your approval is all I was waiting for,” he says, dripping sarcasm. His mother looks stung, but also like she was expecting it. He should maybe feel worse about that. 

“Well, you seemed good together. Margo told me that you miss him.”

Great. He’ll have to thank Margo later for that. “Margo doesn’t know when to stop talking.”

Eliot’s mother smiles then, just a little bit. “It’s none of my business, I know. But, if I can just offer you one piece of motherly advice, before I leave.”

Eliot shrugs. He doesn’t want her advice, can’t think of what she could possibly offer him. 

“Don’t wait for people to come back to you. Sometimes you have to chase the things, the people, you love. To be happy.” 

Eliot swallows. He’s angry and sad, suddenly—he doesn’t think she deserves to say anything to him, especially something that cutting, like she knows him, like she’s in a position to be giving anyone relationship advice. Eliot opens his mouth and closes it again. He wants to tell her that she was a terrible mother, and she doesn’t get to redo that now just because they’re adults and she suddenly wants to be part of their lives; he wants to tell her, but more than that he wants her to just leave so he can stop thinking about her or his childhood or any of it. 

“I’m glad I got to see you two,” she continues, looking almost genuinely emotional. “I know I wasn’t a very good mother when you were younger, Eliot, but all I want is for you to be happy. I don’t know if that involves me, at all, but I suspect it might involve Quentin. And oh, here comes Margo.” Her tone changes abruptly to the more detached one he’s used to, and that’s better, because it’s easier to remember how much he doesn’t want her in his life when she’s not trying to be kind and supportive. 

“Time to go,” Margo says, approaching the car. Eliot’s mother gives her hand a squeeze and then looks at Eliot like she wants to hug him or something; he steps back, automatically, and she settles for a smile. 

“Everything okay?” Margo asks quietly once their mother is inside the car. 

Eliot pastes on a smile. “She just wanted to give me some unwanted motherly advice.”

Margo rolls her eyes. “Well, she’s almost on the plane. See you later.”

Margo gets into the car and it pulls away, leaving Eliot standing alone on the sidewalk. He sighs, kicks at some snow with his absolutely not waterproofed but still excellent-looking leather shoes. He doesn’t want to think about anything his mother said, but he can’t entirely help it; he’s smart enough to know the whole speech was about her regretting not chasing after him and Margo, not trying to have any sort of relationship until she decided it was the right time. And while he appreciates the sentiment, he doesn’t like the implication that he’s doing the same thing as she did, doesn’t like even more that it rings true. Fuck her, he’s doing just fine. 

Except he’s not, except he wants both of them to be right, except he wants to go back to that night in the hospital and tell that stupid, scared, overwhelmed version of himself that he should stop, and think, before he destroys the best thing to accidentally happen in his life in years and years, maybe ever. He wants to go back and step out of the elevator and fuck it, if Quentin didn’t look up, he would still tell him he made a mistake, that it was all just armor and fear and not wanting to fuck it all up after it became real and important. Eliot takes a deep breath of cold air. 

He can’t do that though, he can’t go back, and he can’t text Quentin because it feels desperate, and he can’t do anything but move forward and try to forget what it felt like. If they’d just stuck to the official timeline, they’d still have three days together. Eliot buries his face in his coat collar and heads back towards the city. 


	7. Chapter 7

The knot that forms in Quentin’s throat as he walks into the hospital is inevitable—it happens every time, the anxiety about what he’s going to find when he reaches his dad’s room coalescing until it’s hard for him to swallow.

Everything should be fine, nothing else has happened since his dad collapsed and they brought him here; he’s recovering well and everyone is optimistic, they’re just keeping him there longer for observation. It doesn’t really help though, the knowledge that this time it’s fine, because he knows that one of these times it won’t be, and the dread of that sits deep within Quentin.

It had taken all of Quentin’s strength to pull himself out of bed on Monday and force himself to go to work, but his head hurt the entire day, and he was glad he’d already taken off the 31st. He’d thought he’d be spending the day mourning his previous breakup, with Alice.

He’d woken up, showered, and listened to an especially guilt-tripping voicemail from his mom asking how many times he’d been to the hospital to visit, because she hasn’t seen him there yet when she’s been by to visit, how strange. The truth is that visiting his dad feels similar to texting Eliot—both things produce the same anxious panic that something might go wrong, both wrapped in the same sadness and disbelief and fear. 

He couldn’t keep avoiding it, though, especially because he knows that spending New Year’s in a hospital, whatever the reason, isn’t very fun or festive. 

His mom looks up from a book when he walks in, and he tries to hide his surprise that she’s actually visiting, sitting near but not quite beside his dad’s bed, looking slightly put-out but still there. Quentin’s dad is propped up in the bed, looking at a crossword puzzle, the low hum of a tv show that no one’s watching underneath it all. He looks up and smiles when Quentin walks in. 

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

Quentin smiles, half because he can’t help smiling around his dad and half because he doesn’t know what his face will do if he doesn’t keep it pressed into a smile. “Hi, dad.”

“Nice of you to stop by,” his mom says, like she somehow comes out of this looking like the better person, like it’s a competition. 

“Yeah, sorry, it’s been a—a lot these past few days.” 

“Of course, lying to your parents must have been very hard on you.” 

Quentin bites his lip to keep from rolling his eyes. His dad must be feeling a little bit better at least, if his mom is feeling comfortable enough to spit venom in the hospital room. Then again, he can almost understand, since he sort of lied to himself, too, about whether or not it was real, and now that lie has become like a physical wound. 

“Sorry, about the lying part, I just. I wanted you to think I was happy, instead of worrying.” He doesn’t add the part where it also kept them from spending the entire holiday month harassing him about finding someone. 

Quentin’s mom’s expression softens slightly, and his dad puts down the book he’s working from. Quentin wants to watch the floor—he’s already found patterns to count in the series of brown and white and blue tiles—but he can feel their eyes on him and eventually he looks up, meeting his dad’s gaze, which is sad and soft and tired. Quentin is determined not to get upset, not to show them how completely fucked up he is right now, about all of it, but he can feel his eyes starting to prickle uncomfortably. He tries to blink the feeling away. 

“Maybe you should get us some coffee,” Ted says, and Quentin’s mom leaves the room, mumbling something he can’t understand. Quentin drops himself into a second chair and they sit in silence except for the tv’s quiet drone, until it’s been minutes. Quentin looks up and tries to swallow down the panic he feels every time he sees his dad in a hospital bed. 

“Hey, dad, sorry I didn’t, um, visit more this weekend.” 

Ted smiles. “It’s okay, Curly Q. They said they won’t keep me here for more than a few days more, then you can come visit me at home.” 

Neither of them say anything, but they’re both thinking it: one of these days he’ll be in the hospital and it won’t be that easy, and Quentin won’t have the extra chance to see him. But now is not that day, and grateful doesn’t even begin to express it. 

“Listen, maybe we should also talk about Eliot.” Just hearing his name makes all of the sadness he’s trying to hold down bubble up again. 

“We don’t,” Quentin says quickly. “I know it was shitty for me to lie about it. And he’s gone, so...that’s that.”

“Quentin.” Quentin will never admit that it’s comforting to hear his dad say his name like that, firmly, like he feels well enough to slide into normal parent behavior, like nothing’s changed. “I know it’s because of me, that you did that because I said I wanted to see you get married before...” The silence stretches out again, neither of them wants to say any of it out loud. 

“But,” Ted continues, “you didn’t have to fake an engagement just to give me hope.” 

Quentin huffs out a breath. There are far worse reasons for doing things than that, and he doesn’t think he regrets any of it, even if right now everything hurts. He also knows that his dad is too proud to accept that Quentin can’t regret the lie if it made anyone happy for any moment in time. He’s trying to figure out how to say that when his mom walks back in, carrying three cups of coffee. 

“He’s right,” she says, like she’s been there all along, “you should be dating someone you actually like.” She hands a warm cup to Quentin and then one to Ted, rolling her eyes when he waves it off. “I know you can’t have coffee, it’s just an empty cup so you don’t feel left out.” 

Quentin smiles into his cup and takes a sip of really bad coffee. He always assumed that his parents kept up the occasional happy family events for his benefit, but he’s starting to think it might be a little bit for them, too, that maybe they don’t hate each other as much as they want to. 

He feels slightly emboldened by this realization. “I did like Eliot.” 

“It seemed like he liked you, too,” Ted says, rolling the empty cup between his hands. 

“Just good acting, I guess.” It feels like Quentin has to cut out a piece of himself to say that, but he has to get used to it now; he has to be able to shrug it off like it’s nothing or the pain will never fade. 

“Don’t worry,” his mom says, patting his shoulder and sitting down in the chair by the bed again. “We’ll find you someone better. I’m sure I know someone nice who would be perfect for you.”

Quentin’s dad looks like he wants to say something else, but Quentin’s mom just keeps talking and Ted eventually lies back and lets her lead the conversation. This is the exact thing Quentin was hoping to avoid, the nagging and questioning and attempts to set him up with someone random his parents know, but he supposes he’ll just have to deal with it for a little while, at least until his mother forgives him for lying. He leans back in his chair, curling one foot up under him, settling in for the rest of visiting hours, and listens to his parents talk about prospective dates, debating whether or not they could find someone for that same night now that he’s single again, and tries not to think about Eliot. 

— —

Eliot walks into his office in the middle of the afternoon, more hungover and less drunk than he’d like, and stops dead in the doorway and takes off his sunglasses. He’s really just not in the mood for this. 

“Todd? Are you...sitting at my desk?” 

Todd startles up in the desk chair he’d been leaning back in, his feet hitting the ground with a thump. He has the good sense to get the rest of the way out of the chair. “Eliot! You, well, you weren’t here this morning and after a while I just figured why stand.” He shrugs. One of Eliot’s glasses, filled with ice, is dripping condensation on the wood of the desk. Fucking Todd.

“You’ve been in my office since this morning?” 

Todd shrugs again. “You have the best view.” Arguably true. 

He steps into his office, making Todd scurry aside in a very gratifying way. “So what do you want?” 

“You’re coming to my New Year’s party, right?” 

Eliot groans inwardly. Fuck, he’d forgotten it was New Year’s, and he’d have to choose some boring party to attend to appease the job overlords. Most years he throws his own party, but he just can’t summon the energy for it this time. Maybe he can at least improve Todd’s undoubtedly lame party with his presence. 

“Right. Sure.” Eliot picks up the wet glass and moves it onto a coaster, then grabs another glass and pours himself a drink. 

“You can bring your pretend boyfriend if you want.” 

The glass lands on the desk with much more force than Eliot intends. Of course. Todd doesn’t know that the plan went sour before its official time, and their shared knowledge of Eliot’s pretend relationship is about the only reason Eliot’s been tolerating so much face time, so it’s natural that he would bring it up. Still. It makes Eliot feel unsteady, to have it mentioned without him expecting it. 

Which Todd has obviously noticed, since he’s edging towards the doorway. 

“Actually, that didn’t really work out.”

He can see questions flicker through Todd’s brain in real time; all of which Eliot probably doesn’t have answers for. Especially not for Todd. 

“Even better, then. You can get your New Year rebound going.” Todd does a tiny awkward movement that might be dancing and might be something more lewd. 

Eliot smirks and takes a drink because otherwise he feels like he might start yelling. That’s probably exactly what he needs, but he can feel himself wanting to overthink it. “Bye, Todd.” 

“Oh, right. I’ll text you the address!” And just like that Todd is out of his office. 

Eliot could technically leave, almost no one is actually at work today, but instead he sits down and tries to get something done. The thing is, work is easy for Eliot—even when he was in school, academics were easy for him—his triumphs, the interesting pieces of his life, are social accomplishments. Which just means that work isn’t a good distraction for how out of sorts he’s still feeling. He thought when his mother left he’d be able to just put this entire series of events out of his mind, but he keeps seeing his text chain with Quentin when he opens his phone, and he found the stupid glass ball from the park in his coat pocket this morning. 

Eliot sits in his office and works until it’s dark and everyone else has left, and tries to keep his mind occupied so it doesn’t have a chance to slip back towards Quentin. He just has to go to Todd’s party, and find someone new, someone better, who will be a good enough distraction. He tells himself that enough that he actually thinks he might believe it, at least for the night. 

Todd’s party is at a huge loft apartment in Soho that clearly does not belong to Todd, but Eliot decides it’s smarter not to ask questions. The decoration is sparse, a few strings of lights and some sparkly garlands, and otherwise it’s just an apartment full of nice furniture and glasses scattered around and thumping music he doesn’t know. The place is already full of people when Eliot gets there, around 9:45pm, some people he recognizes and a lot he doesn't. Which is probably better, easier; he can be whoever he wants at this party. 

He finds the kitchen/bar area quickly enough and lets the poor idiot playing bartender pour him a drink, even though he knows it’s not going to be great. He looks around, sipping his weird cocktail, which is basically a bastardization of a Manhattan. 

“Eliot!” 

He sees Todd across the room, lounging across a richly upholstered couch with about six girls squeezed in next to him, in varying shades of drunk and sparkly. Eliot wonders vaguely how Todd found so many who could be taken in by his questionable skills.

“Glad you came!” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He’d rather be almost anywhere else right now. Like, for example, any single party where they’re actually paying the bartender enough for them to at least look up the recipes. 

A guy dressed in a leopard-print bodysuit comes dancing over to them and drapes his arms over Todd and the girls on the couch. The guy continues his rhythmic writhing, pulling some of the girls up with him. “Great party!” he calls as he dances away towards the more open space, making far too much eye contact with Eliot. It’s not uninteresting, but really Eliot can’t focus on any of the things in front of him enough to care.

“That’s Charlie,” Todd says, standing up so he can more effectively lean in towards Eliot conspiratorially, “and there’s plenty more like him around.” Todd is clearly hoping for some show of excitement from Eliot, and he frowns when he doesn’t get it. “Look, man, I know you’ve been pretending to be hit really hard by this breakup or whatever, but you don’t have to pretend with  _ me, _ or any of my many, many friends.” 

Eliot rolls his eyes and takes another wince-inducing sip of the terrible drink. Of course it seems like he’s just pretending—pretending to be torn up over the pretend breakup of the pretend engagement—that was always part of the plan. So why can’t he snap out of it?

“Don’t you need to go talk to one of your many friends?” 

“I’m just saying, you could definitely pick anyone here and uh, ring in the new year with a bang,” Todd raises his eyebrows suggestively, “if you catch my drift.” 

Eliot feels exhausted. He’s suddenly completely aware that he doesn’t want any of this. He’s supposed to be celebrating; he made a choice, and it was the right choice, the safe choice, and he should be happier now. He doesn’t feel happier, though, and he doesn’t feel safe. And he doesn’t want any of these writhing, happy people; he only wants one person, and being given the offer of the others draws it into complete focus. He wants one awkward, nerdy, anxious person who will watch old movies with him and listen to him complain about his family and talk passionately about things Eliot used to think were silly, and fix things and make him forget that he hates the snow and the season and the idea of waking up next to the same person over and over again. Who makes Eliot wish he wasn’t so afraid of something real. Oh. He wants Quentin. He  _ only  _ wants Quentin. 

“Yeah, right, thanks,” he says absently, brushing Todd off and walking away without really paying attention to the response. Eliot doesn’t know where he’s going, exactly, but he needs to get away from Todd to figure it out, he needs to talk to someone who can tell him he’s making the right decision. Eliot glances at his watch—it’s only 10pm. He lets himself into an empty room he assumes is a study based on the furniture and stands at the window and dials Margo’s number.

“Happy New Year!” she answers brightly. In the background, he can hear Fen blowing on of those irritating paper party horns along with the beat of blaring music. 

Eliot doesn’t have time to tease her about that, he’s too frantic and determined and shaken by the fact that it took him this long to figure this out, and he feels like he has to fix it now, as soon as possible, before Quentin meets someone else who’s not afraid to love him and they kiss at midnight and that’s it, Eliot’s lost everything. 

“Margo, are you in the city?”

“What? No, I’m home.” She pauses, and the background noise quiets a little bit. “Why? What’s wrong?” She sounds genuinely concerned; Eliot is so fucking grateful to have her. 

“I think,” he pauses, trying to make his mouth catch up with his brain. “I think it wasn’t all fake. I think I might be in love with him. I think I fucked it all up, and I need to fix it and I just. What should I do?” 

It comes out quickly, unedited, and when he’s finished talking Eliot feels overwhelmed by both relief and intense panic. Margo doesn’t say anything right away. 

“I know this must come as a shock,” he adds, assuming that her lack of response means she’s as surprised as he is to realize all of this. 

“Okay, first of all, it’s not a fucking shock because I tried to tell you that days ago. And second of all, you are such an idiot, because  _ I tried to tell you that days ago. _ ” She pauses. Eliot feels his hope fall a little. 

“So you think I fucked up my chance?”

“I honestly don’t know, El.” Margo sighs, he can hear her tapping her fingers against something. “But you kind of owe it to both of you to try.” 

“Okay.” It’s all swirling around inside of him, all of the things he tried to push down and ignore floating to the surface, overwhelming and exciting and terrifying. But Margo isn’t telling him it’s a mistake, and he has to grasp onto whatever hope he can find. He just has to figure out where to find Quentin now…Eliot suddenly remembers him talking about a New Years party for work, at one of the fancy hotel bars near the park. “Okay, I have to go.”

“El, I’m proud of you. For letting yourself care.”

Eliot laughs wryly. “Very off-brand for me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s called growth. Now go!” 

He can hear Margo’s smile in her voice, and it buoys him just the right amount. He’s not fucking up, not right now, and he’s not going to back down. He’s going to be brave, and say what he needs to say, and hope that Quentin feels even a little bit the same, that he’ll forgive him for being such an idiot, that they can rip the contract to pieces and start over for real this time. 

Eliot drops his glass on the desk and leaves the room, the party, the building, stepping out into the city night full of cabs honking and people yelling. He tries to figure out the fastest way to get to the party he hopes Quentin is actually at—there’s bound to be a lot of traffic as they approach Times Square, and the subway will undoubtedly be a nightmare, and he doesn’t know if he can actually sprint that many blocks, regardless of incentive. 

Eliot sees a car parked across the street that he knows can go fast, and he doesn’t even think about how out in the open he is, but quickly lets himself in and starts the car, pulling out into the traffic. The car radio blares into life; it’s set to a Christmas station playing some modern pop rendition of “Last Christmas” that usually would annoy the shit out of Eliot, but is just kind of adding to the sense of the chase right now. 

Please let Quentin be at that party. Please let him stay until Eliot can get there. He revs the engine and pushes it faster uptown. 

— —

Quentin is late for the party, late getting back from the hospital and choosing an outfit (he eventually goes with one of his nearly new shirts, the ones Julia made him buy before his date with…before the last holiday party). He doesn’t even want to go, but he promised Julia he would, and he can’t stomach the argument. 

He runs around his apartment, making himself presentable, and nearly trips over the framed picture still lying in the middle of the floor near the wall as he rushes to pull his outfit together. 

“What the fuck?” he yells at himself, before he realizes what it is. The glass has huge cracks running through it, smaller pieces still littering the floor. Quentin sits down hard on his bed and looks at the photo—him and Eliot, kissing, smiling, looking like a real couple.  _ So much so that we even fooled ourselves. _

Quentin holds the broken frame gingerly in his hands and thinks about Eliot telling him, “you fix things.” About Eliot holding him and standing in the hospital telling him unequivocally, “no.” As much as he wishes he could forget about it, he also knows he doesn’t want to, that he won’t ever really. Quentin smiles morosely at the photo, at the people who didn’t know yet what the hell they were getting into, either of them, and puts it down on the nightstand again. 

He reaches inside of himself, finding the magic that lives there, the part that wants him to be exactly what he is, not more or better or less unusual. He closes his eyes and lifts all of the little pieces of glass up off the floor and back into the frame, back into their place, making it whole again. It makes something inside of Quentin mend, too, a tiny bit, like he can breathe just a tiny bit easier. 

He remembers something that Alice said, when he went to her apartment after the breakup to collect his stuff, and saw a photo of them, smiling, sitting on her mantlepiece. “Our relationship was never going to work, but it’s still worth something. It’s still worth honoring the memory of what we thought it was.” 

Quentin gives the picture of him and Eliot one last glance, and then goes to grab his coat, but he turns back before he reaches the door. His mind is still buzzing with the feeling of fixing things, and he opens the drawer of his nightstand slowly, picks up the little wrapped package of shards and paper towels. He sits down on the bed and unwraps it—Eliot’s family ornament. It seems like so long ago that he broke it, that he tucked it into his nightstand with the promise of fixing it and then promptly avoided doing that. It feels like so much more than a few weeks.

Quentin runs his fingers over the smooth side of one of the larger shards. He knows he can fix it, now, he isn’t afraid of being out of practice or not good enough, and he knows that Eliot is responsible for at least some of that. He wants to fix it, even if he has no idea how he’ll get it back to them, even if the thought of seeing Eliot or his family makes Quentin queasy. 

The magic is easier to summon now, he knows where to find the part of him that longs to fix things, that wants things to be whole. He holds the broken ornament and leans into the feeling, trying to imbue his magic with all of the things he loved about Eliot, all of the things he has to let go of, now. 

Quentin drops the paper towels, holding the ornament in his hand. It really is beautiful. He thinks maybe someday he’ll be strong enough to see Eliot again, to give him back the ornament, to be friends and not long for anything more. For now, he slips the ornament into his coat pocket as he leaves, a reminder that things can be fixed. 

It’s almost 10pm as he steps onto the train heading towards the party, which is always at the same fancy hotel bar, and nowhere near his apartment.

“Hey!” Julia stops him as soon as he steps inside. “You came!”

“I said I would!” His attempt to match her excited and intoxicated tone falls flat, but Julia looks unperturbed. Well, he can fix the fact that he’s far more sober, but the holiday cheer is less likely to show up. “I’m going to get a drink.” 

She nods and lets him pass, swaying along to the music pumping through the room. Quentin usually likes this bar—it’s all ornate brass and gold and polished wood, decorated with silver streamers and bowls of iridescent confetti that will eventually be all over the floor. He sidles around the people dancing or standing in little groups until he reaches the bar. It’s a giant u-shape, and most people are gathered around the side closest to the open floor space, like they don’t know there’s more room. Quentin heads instinctively for the other side, which is near nothing except a few windows, and empty except for a couple of people sitting pressed against it. 

“Uh, rum and coke, please,” Quentin says, leaning over the bar and saying the first thing that comes to mind when the bartender approaches him. He hears someone snicker and looks over. Quentin’s mind momentarily goes blank as he sees who’s sitting next to him. “Alice?”

“That’s a sad Quentin cocktail.” She smiles at him, tight-lipped, but friendly. She’s wearing a shift dress made of blue lace with something sparkly set into it, and her hair is pulled to one side with glittering bobby pins. She looks like she always did, except much happier than the Alice who lives in Quentin’s memories. Quentin sits down hard, almost missing the barstool under him. 

“What—what are you doing here?”

Alice looks at him, her expression impenetrable. “You texted me.”

Oh, fuck. The texts. That he thought he hadn’t sent, that he barely remembers, that were just the result of a long, sad, drunk evening. He wants to disappear into the floor, instinctively shrinks down in his barstool, even though that does nothing but fuck up his posture. 

“But. Why did you, um, why did you actually come?”

Alice shrugs, takes a sip from the martini glass in front of her. “You seemed bad. And I didn’t have plans.” 

Quentin leans an elbow against the bar counter. “Thanks.” He’s not good enough at lying to himself to think that he’s not a little bit happy to see her, but it’s not the excitement he was expecting, the one linked to the possibility of getting back together, it’s just the happiness of seeing someone he used to know really well. Even if Eliot isn’t the person for him, he at least served the purpose of showing Quentin that he can move past his old pain, the things he used to think were perfect before they exploded; it’s comforting to know that eventually he’ll get past this one, too. 

“So what asshole broke up with you this time?” she says it like the last time it wasn’t her, and Quentin appreciates the approach. Like they’re friends, sort of. He still wants to disappear, but the feeling is getting less intense. 

“This guy. Eliot.” Alice nods like she knows, like all people named Eliot are just the absolute worst. “We had an agreement to um, pretend to date. Cause, you know, my dad…but I thought it was getting real.” Quentin pauses to take a drink. He’s starting to regret this entire interaction, because she looks perfect and concerned and he feels silly and small and flawed. “But I was wrong. He didn’t want me in real life.”

Alice cocks her head to the side. He remembers this, feeling like a specimen of some alien who doesn’t know what to say or do when he gets upset, or anxious, who doesn’t have enough self-worth to lend some to him. Unlike Eliot. Quentin really doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. 

“It’s okay,” he says, instead. “It’s a whole weird story, but I just. Let myself hope too much, like always.”

Alice frowns at him. “You can’t fault yourself for that, Quentin. Sometimes things just don’t work out because they don’t work out, you shouldn’t internalize that.”

“Someone’s been to therapy.”

She laughs. God, he still loves the way she laughs. “A little.” They both drink. The party rages around them, but their side of the bar is quiet, like the eye of a hurricane. “Do you love him?” Alice asks suddenly, while Quentin is contemplating how he should feel about being out at a party without actually engaging in the party, while sitting with his ex who, a few months ago, he would have called the absolute only love of his life. 

He doesn’t have to think about it. “Yeah.” 

She nods, satisfied. “I bet he loves you, too.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I remember being loved by you, and I don’t think it’s possible to be in that position and not love you back,” she says plainly. 

“Yeah,” Quentin scoffs, “sure.”

“How’s your dad?” He had forgotten how she swerved between conversation topics like that. 

“He’s okay. They’re letting him out of the hospital tomorrow, hopefully, so…”

“I didn’t know he was in the hospital, but good, if he’s leaving.” She pauses, like she’s trying to figure out how to say anything else, which Quentin appreciates, since it’s also how he feels when he has to talk about his dad with other people. “Give him my love, okay?”

He nods. He’s going to say something else, about his dad, about her, about how she should visit, maybe; when he sees Julia waving at him from the other side of the bar. 

“Quentin!” Julia is laugh-yelling. “It’s our song, you gotta come dance!”

He waves back at her until she shrugs and dances off towards the crowd. Quentin’s here, he’s  _ here, _ he left his apartment and came out and has a drink in his hand and that’s the absolute best he can do right now. Dancing isn’t going to happen. 

“How’s  _ Julia _ ?” Alice asks, in a way that means she definitely remembers how Julia wasn’t there when their relationship was falling apart, and also the angry voicemail she left on Alice’s phone once they officially broke up. 

“So, why didn’t you have New Year’s Eve plans?” Quentin asks, changing the subject before he has to do too much defense work. 

Alice shrugs. “I’m trying this thing where I’m happy with myself, and that means not really dating, and that means I just didn’t have New Year’s plans this year. It will still change years at midnight, whether I’m here or on my couch.” 

“Well, I’m honestly glad you’re here,” Quentin says. He’s thinking about how Eliot would probably like Alice—well, they’d hate each other for a while, but eventually he thinks they’d like each other. It’s absolutely the most destructive train of thought he could possibly be indulging. 

“So tell me about Eliot,” she says, like she can read his mind. Quentin tries to argue, he doesn’t want to be extolling Eliot’s virtues when it will only get him deeper into his current heartbreak, but he also does want to talk about him, without the weight of Julia’s desire for him to bounce back from the pain, without the added stress of needing to pretend like he doesn’t really care as much as he does. 

So instead, he launches into a description. He tells her about the online messages; about the dates that went badly and then went better; about how he couldn’t believe Eliot was even willing to pretend with him; how it started feeling less like pretending for someone else’s benefit and more like walking into something together, purposefully; about how it all fell apart in an instant. They’re both into their next drinks when he finally finishes talking, his voice croaky and raw. 

“Anyway, that’s my life. Sad, right?”

“Falling for the handsome stranger, tricking your parents, good sex? Doesn’t sound too bad.” Alice smiles, puts her hand on his shoulder and stands up from her barstool. He can’t tell if the hand is to steady herself, or him. “I should go.” 

Quentin stands up quickly. “Are you sure?” He follows her gaze to a clock on the wall. It’s 11:30, almost tomorrow. 

“Yes.” She starts to move away through the bar, then turns back to him. “You’ll always have a place in my life, Q. And I hope you can figure things out with Eliot. You deserve to be happy.” 

“You too, I mean…happy new year?” 

Alice laughs lightly and then she’s gone, lost in the mess of people. It feels surreal, suddenly, sitting there alone at the bar, where recently Alice was sitting with him, while people dance and party and yell all around him. He suddenly wants very much to go home. Even though it will probably mean greeting the new year in a cab at this point, he wants to stop pretending to be happy. 

He tips the bartender and pushes himself off of the barstool, weaving through the people towards the door. He almost makes it without any difficulty, he can see the door, when Julia steps in front of him. She’s gained a silver top hat from somewhere, and there’s confetti pieces stuck to her dress. Penny’s close behind her, confetti stuck to his bare chest. Both of them look like they’re having a great time. Quentin would love it if they would continue having a great time out of his path. 

“What? You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I think I should go home, Jules.”

“But it’s almost midnight,” Penny says. Quentin thinks he liked Penny better when he was just kind of an office annoyance, and not friendly enough with either him or Julia to get into Quentin’s business. “You’ve got a better chance of finding someone to kiss here than at home.” Rude, but true—and irrelevant.

Julia waves Penny off, aware that’s not the right argument for this point in the post breakup landscape. “C’mon, stay a little longer?”

“I can’t.” His words are met with pouty faces, but he can’t do it anymore, he can’t stay out and pretend he’s not feeling like shit, wondering what party Eliot is at, probably kissing strangers without a second thought. “But, you know, um, Happy New Year.”

Julia shrugs and pulls Penny back into the crowd. 

The sidewalk outside of the hotel bar is packed, and Quentin’s ears are filled with honking and yelling and those stupid noisemakers. It’s cold, much colder than it was inside the bar; it’s bracing and it makes him feel alive, more than the drinking and the confetti and the artificial happiness did. He lets the sound wash over him for a minute, stands by the street and lets himself float on the noise and the excitement in the air. 

He’s half hoping that it will be enough of a distraction, enough that he gets swept away to some other party, or the nonsense in Times Square, where he’ll be so caught up in figuring out how he got there that he’ll forget that he’s sad and alone and rejected, again. It doesn’t happen though, nothing happens, and after a minute of standing still, he sighs and lets himself come crashing down to reality. 

Quentin steps into the street and hails a cab. He knows some part of him was imagining that Eliot would show up, that Eliot would remember where he’d mentioned his office party was, that he’d regret his decision and would come bursting into the hotel bar like a dream, and they’d run into each other’s arms and dance until midnight, and then Eliot would whisper dirty things in his ear and they’d leave together and that would be that. But it’s a ridiculous fantasy, a Hollywood ending that doesn’t happen in real life. A cab pulls over to him and he climbs inside, embarrassed that he still scans the sidewalk before he does so,  _ just in case.  _ The door closes on the noise of New Year’s Eve and the cab starts to crawl down the street. 

— —

Eliot has to ditch the car early, because the streets start to become parking lots around Times Square, and there’s no way he’s going to make it—the clock on the dashboard taunts him with the creeping minutes. He leaves it parked in a space where he doesn’t  _ think _ it will get towed (and really, he’ll never know if it does), and starts to run up the remaining blocks. 

He’s not wearing the right shoes for running, or the right anything, really. Running is probably going to ruin some part of his outfit, but he doesn’t care, not even a little bit. Eliot keeps his phone in his hand so he can keep checking the time; he doesn’t know how long Quentin will stay at the party, he doesn’t even know if Quentin went to the party at all, but he knows that if he gets there way past midnight the chance of finding Quentin gets worse. 

When Eliot finally reaches the right block he’s completely out of breath, and it’s 11:40. He has to stop, pausing at the corner, leaning against the rough white wall of the building there—if only he’d taken Margo more seriously when she told him to go to the gym. Standing still for a moment, he realizes he doesn’t really have a plan, at all—he’s going to find Quentin and tell him how he feels and hope that it’s not too late, and then…he guesses it doesn’t really matter until he knows what Quentin’s going to say, which he’ll never know if he doesn’t start fucking walking again. 

Eliot looks up and sees someone standing at the curb, way down the block, about to get into a taxi. He stares for a moment, but that’s all it takes for him to know it’s Quentin—he recognizes his coat, and his hair catching in the wind, and the way he stands. Eliot just  _ knows,  _ and he smiles at the realization before it hits him that Quentin is leaving, is getting in a car and driving away, and Eliot has no idea where he’s going. But he’s going to catch him. 

Despite the traffic, Quentin’s taxi moves quickly, and Eliot starts running again, sprinting full speed down the block, pushing people gently out of his way with his mind so he doesn’t have to pretend to pay attention to the crowds. He runs until he’s out of breath again and he realizes there’s no way in hell he’s actually going to catch this taxi. He glances around, looking for something to help him move faster, wishing he hadn’t abandoned the car, but there’s nothing parked on this street for him to steal, nothing except…

Eliot’s eyes land on the horse-drawn carriages on the opposite side of the street, sitting lined up along the park, barely even being watched. Who would be ridiculous enough to steal a horse in New York City? Eliot grins. He is absolutely that desperate.

He runs across the street, making the cars avoid him, and picks out the one closest to him. He quickly detaches the horse from its carriage, both for weight and space considerations, although he can appreciate how epic it would be to chase down a taxi with the carriage still attached. He has to get moving as quickly as possible, before Quentin’s taxi can make a turn and disappear for real. Trying his best for discreet, he climbs up onto one of the horses. Luckily for Eliot, growing up on a farm where he hated his parents means that he has a lot of experience with horses, and a fair amount of experience taking horses out without anyone noticing.

In seconds, they’re trotting down the street, Eliot encouraging the horse to go faster than it’s probably normally allowed, weaving carefully into the cars, following the taxi that he can barely see. 

“Come on, we have to find him,” he says quietly to the horse as they blow through an intersection. The horse doesn’t reply, thank god, but it’s still reassuring to feel like he has something to talk to. Eliot is strongly regretting never learning how to fly, although he supposes it would be just slightly more noticeable. 

He sees the taxi, ahead, far ahead: he recognizes the advertisement on the roof, and the weird-shaped dent in the bumper. He keep riding. People start to notice him, he can hear them yelling at him, and he’s definitely disrupting the traffic pattern, but he’s never cared less about anything in his entire life. This whole city can fall apart for all he cares, as long as he catches Quentin’s taxi. 

He weaves through cars and eventually he can see the taxi stop at the next light. Actually stop, so close in front of him that he can make out the license plate. 

Eliot rides his stolen horse up to the taxi and then carefully climbs down. People are staring, hanging heads out of their cars, trying to figure out what’s going on—probably he looks just like some kind of corporate publicity stunt. The light is still red. 

Eliot knocks on the window of the taxi. He’s out of breath, and flushed from the wind in his face, and he feels dread wrapping up inside of him. There’s a moment where he thinks he might have had the wrong taxi all along, and then Quentin turns towards the window. 

Their eyes meet and fuck, Eliot has never been so certain of anything in his life as he is in this moment, looking into Quentin’s eyes through the dirty windows of a taxi. 

Slowly, Quentin opens the door and steps out onto the street. It’s 11:55. 

“What are you—“ Quentin starts to ask, pausing as his eyes fall on Eliot’s ride. “Is that a horse?”

“It is, in fact, a horse.” 

Quentin smiles, confused. “What are you doing with a horse?”

“Chasing you.” He reaches out one hand, unsure if Quentin’s going to let him make any contact, when he really has no reason to. Quentin swallows but lets Eliot take his hand. Eliot can feel Quentin’s pulse racing under his fingers, and he wants to kiss every inch of him, maybe right there in the street, if Quentin will let him.

Quentin’s confusion is melting into wonder. Eliot could live in that expression. “Why?”

“Because I fucked up.” Eliot hesitates, then takes hold of Quentin’s other hand, too. “I got scared, and I pushed you away, and I was wrong.” 

“You said it wasn’t real.” Quentin’s face turns to the ground, avoiding Eliot, now that it really matters.

Eliot winces. He did, and he knows now how incredibly wrong he was. This is real: standing in the street with a horse mid-traffic on New Year’s Eve, people crowded all around them, and seeing only Quentin. It was always real, and Eliot was just too blinded by his own fears to see it. Eliot swallows; this is it, the time to be honest and vulnerable, and brave. 

“I was lying.” Quentin quickly looks up at him again. “I don’t usually care about things, and I wasn’t expecting it. To care about you, so much. But I do.” Vaguely, in the background, Eliot can hear people counting down. “I think I love you, and maybe it’s too soon to say that, but what the hell, we’ve already been engaged, so.” 

_ six, five… _

Quentin laughs, his eyes filled with tears, but the laughter is genuine. For a moment Eliot thinks that’s it, that Quentin is just going to laugh at him and say nothing and get back in the cab and that will be the end of everything. But then Quentin takes a breath, and his voice is husky and colored with emotion when he speaks. “I do too. Care about you. Love you. Even if it is too soon.”

_ three, two… _

Eliot smiles. It’s cold and the horse is pawing the ground anxiously and cars are starting to honk at them for blocking the lane and there is a solid chance he’s going to be arrested for stealing a horse and he has no idea how they’re going to explain all of this to their families but he’s never been happier than he is right now, looking at Quentin, who wants him despite everything, who maybe loves him even if it’s too soon. 

Cries of “Happy New Year” erupt around them, filling the streets with noise and cheers; someone near them is throwing confetti, or maybe they have one of those little confetti cannons. Eliot pulls Quentin closer to him, moving one of his hands to the back of Quentin’s neck and drawing him into a kiss that’s not for anyone else’s benefit, it’s not just lust or uncertainty or trying to make the most of a limited timeframe. Eliot kisses Quentin and Quentin kisses him back and it’s everything he’s ever wanted to feel from a kiss, familiar and exciting and comfortable and full of want and promises and fireworks. And sure, the actual fireworks are just because it’s midnight on New Year’s, but it feels like they’re happening just for the two of them. 

When they finally pull apart, despite all the noise around them, the only sound in Eliot’s ears is their breathing, both of them panting hard like they’ve just been running. It’s almost painful to stop kissing Quentin, his lips buzzing; he can barely pull himself away now that he finally realized he doesn’t  _ want _ to pull away, not this time. He looks down at Quentin, flushed with the cold, his eyes bright and fully focused on Eliot, his lips parted just a bit—fuck, he’s beautiful. 

“Oh!” Quentin pulls back slightly and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out something small, holding it like it’s fragile, extending it out to Eliot. “For next year? I mean, for your tree next year, not that I’m saying I’ll definitely be there next year...”

It takes Eliot a moment to realize it’s the ornament Quentin broke, only weeks ago although it feels like years. It’s not broken now, though, it’s intact without any evidence it had ever been in pieces except for the faint signature of magic. It’s not important, Eliot had almost forgotten about it, except that Quentin did it for him, even without knowing they’d see each other again.  _ For next year. _ Eliot nods and pulls Quentin close to him again. 

“For  _ our _ tree next year,” Eliot says and Quentin’s cheeks get impossibly redder.

“So, um, what happens now?” Quentin says quietly, carefully. “Are we engaged again or..?”

It takes Eliot a minute of watching Quentin’s lips curl into a smile to realize he’s joking. He huffs out a laugh that’s part relief and part something else. Eliot realizes after a moment that the part of him that usually starts screaming “run away” right about now is silent, that he doesn’t want to be anywhere but here, with Quentin, even if it means he’ll be there forever. Maybe especially if it means that. 

“Ask me again next year.” 


	8. Epilogue: One Year Later

Eliot opens his eyes to a room that is too quiet and cold, and immediately goes from half-asleep to fully awake as he glances sideways—Quentin's not there. It's not a workday, or rather, they both decided to take today off, since they've got to fortify themselves for the first of the holiday family events; maybe Quentin decided to go into work after all, or maybe he's just up making breakfast (laughable, he can barely make toast), or maybe he's just decided to work from home and didn't want his typing to wake Eliot up. 

He listens, trying to hear the sounds of someone in the other room of his apartment, cooking or typing or just moving around, but he can't hear anything. It just...it's fucking weird. Eliot's gotten used to seeing Quentin every morning, to the way Quentin's eyes light up when he first sees Eliot each day, like he's still marveling at his luck that they're together. Which is ridiculous, when Eliot's the lucky one. 

Sitting up in bed, Eliot hears a slight rustle, and fully looks to his side. On Quentin's pillow is a small sheet of paper. Fuck, that's never a good sign. In his experience, notes on a pillow mean sneaking out and wanting to let the person sleeping down without an actual face-to-face conversation— _ Sorry, it's not you, it's me, thought it would be better to just go _ , etc., etc. He picks up the paper, dread and bile building inside of him. 

It reads,  _ Rule One: get out of bed, and put on the clothing on the chair. _

Eliot looks around the room, unsure if he wants to laugh or if he should be worried. It's Quentin's writing, but the sentiment is very un-Quentin-like. Rules? What the fuck. 

It only takes him a minute to find the outfit he's supposed to put on—a shirt he hasn't worn in months, pulled somewhere from the dark recesses of his closet. 

"What the fuck is this, Q?" he says aloud, to the empty room. No one answers, or jumps out from some hidden spying spot, so he shrugs and opens his closet, pulling out one of his newer shirts, more appropriately in his current rotation. There's a piece of paper stuck through the top button hole. 

_ Rule Two: follow the rules _ .

Eliot laughs, surprised. Okay, then, he'll follow the rules. He gets dressed, walks out of the bedroom, pausing to brush his teeth when he doesn't see any other notes lying around, and makes his way into the kitchen. There's a cup of coffee and a donut sitting on the countertop, with another note.  _ Rule Three: Always eat a healthy breakfast _ .

Eliot tries to remember if this is something they'd talked about, some game he doesn't remember because he drank too much wine last night, but he really doesn't think so. He doesn't feel hungover, and he feels sure he remembers just going to bed last night without any discussion of this morning. He's not known for his patience, so he only eats half the donut and scalds his throat with gulps of coffee before jumping up and looking around for the next note. 

It's on the coffee table near the couch, sitting balanced on top of a little bluetooth speaker.  _ Rule Four: Don't be ashamed of liking Christmas music (but only outside) (take your coat)  _

Eliot picks up the little speaker. Okay, so he's going outside. He grabs his coat from the closet and carries the speaker to the door. He half expects there to be further instructions on the door, but there isn’t, so he just goes out and heads downstairs, towards the street. 

Eliot wraps the coat around him as he opens the door and the cold hits him. He's not sure where to go, so he stands on the steps, glad that it's not a holiday for everyone so he doesn't have to worry about competing with anyone for this spot. He waits for a minute, and when nothing happens, he suspiciously presses play on the speaker.  _ White Christmas _ starts pouring out of the speaker, and Eliot narrows his eyes. He does love this song, but...why? Also, he knows that it has to be linked to Quentin's phone, which means that Quentin's nearby, which means he's probably getting close to the reason behind all of this. 

Out of nowhere, snow starts drifting down from the clouds, and Eliot puts his free hand in his pocket, trying not to feel grumpy about standing out in the cold and starting-to-precipitate weather without knowing why for an indefinite amount of time. 

He feels something weird in his pocket, and grabs it. It's one of those heating balls, it has to be—he and Quentin have become extremely skilled at them, like an inside joke with heating value—but it feels less round than normal, which is weird, since Quentin hasn’t made one too terribly malformed in months.

He pulls it out of his pocket, and it's not a glass ball. It's a little box, like the kind you put jewelry in. Eliot's heart stops. What the actual fuck is going on? He looks around wildly for Quentin, but he's doing an excellent job of disappearing into a shrub or something, because Eliot still can't find him. 

Carefully, cautiously, barely breathing, he opens the box...and there's nothing inside. Well, not nothing. There's a small folded up piece of paper, which he unfolds, his hands still slightly trembly, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. 

_ Rule Five: Look up. _

Eliot glances up, and there in front of him is Quentin, standing on the sidewalk in front of him smiling. Quentin lowers himself down onto one knee, even though it’s cold and starting to snow. Eliot doesn’t say anything, doesn’t breathe, doesn’t dare—he only lets himself take a moment to be annoyed at the fact that Quentin thought of all of this before he did—he just stands and watches Quentin’s face, betraying all of his nervousness and excitement and love. He can’t believe he’s this lucky.

“Last year, when we met, we made these rules, so I thought…” Quentin starts, pausing when Eliot smiles. The snow is really starting to come down, big fluffy snowflakes floating around them. 

Eliot takes a step forward, down the rest of the steps, so he’s on the same level as Quentin. He takes one of Quentin’s hands in his own. This is how it started, isn’t it. Holding hands, feeling nervous, trying to read the other’s mind. “Get to the point,” Eliot says softly and Quentin laughs, which is the desired effect.

“Pushy, but fine.” Eliot takes Quentin’s other hand and pulls him up to standing. This is better, more natural, less like a show. “A year ago, we did this crazy, stupid thing and I fell in love with the best person I’ve ever met. And here we are, a year later, and I still can’t imagine ever wanting to be without you.” He drops one of Eliot’s hands and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ring, small but not plain, silver with a glittering white stone, and extends it in his palm to Eliot. “So, Eliot Waugh, love of my life, even though you don’t like snow and you steal cars—“

“Borrow,” Eliot cuts in, his eyes locked on Quentin’s. 

“Borrow cars. Eliot, will you make both of our families extra confused this year, and say you’ll marry me, for real this time?” 

Eliot feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin. He wants to laugh, and cry, and yell; he wants to throw himself at Quentin and never let go; he has so many thoughts flying through his head he can’t decide which one to say, which one merits actual speaking in a moment this important. He looks into Quentin’s eyes, his expression soft and a little worried, and all the thoughts fly out of Eliot’s head except for this: he loves this man, and no matter what happens, that will never change. 

“Yes, of course, yes,” he breathes, surging forward to press his lips against Quentin’s, filling the space between them, trying to say with that kiss everything he’s ever wanted to say, everything he’ll always want to say. 

The music on the little speaker has progressed to a more upbeat Christmas song. Eliot always imagined that when he got engaged—although he would never admit to having thought about it at all—he would be the one asking, and it would be indoors, with a romantic string quartet, or something; not outdoors with snow collecting on his hair, and “All I Want For Christmas” playing in the background. But it’s perfect. There has never been anything more perfect. 

When they finally pull apart, Eliot feels drunk on emotions. For once in his life, Eliot’s not reminded of anything else, isn’t thinking of anything but this moment; he isn’t looking for something to distract, or numb, or hide in, he’s wholly there, with Quentin, at the start of the rest of their lives. And sure, he’s a little bit terrified, but he keeps his grasp on Quentin’s hand. 

Quentin grins, his face flushed and his eyes bright and happy. He slips the ring onto Eliot’s finger, and it fits perfectly, it looks like something that’s always been there, or rather something that should have, that Eliot didn’t know he was missing until he had it. He’s glad he didn’t get a fake engagement ring last year, glad that this is the first thing to adorn that finger—something real. 

“We should probably tell Margo first,” Eliot says and Quentin looks slightly uncomfortable. 

“I, uh, actually told her already.” He shrugs, recovering his grin. “She helped me pick the ring.”

Eliot smiles, relieved. Nothing hidden, nothing to pretend, no lies to memorize. It’s all real, and good, and his. 

**Author's Note:**

> for the full experience of reading this, please try to imagine my beta zade asking "who's todd?" every single time todd appears.


End file.
